Lost and Found (A Wild Heart story)
by Sevenstars
Summary: Many unrelated factors come together to present Jess and his adopted family with new challenges and choices.
1. Chapter 1

**Lost and Found**

_**A Story in the Wild Heart AU**_

_by Sevenstars_

SUMMARY: For years Jess has believed his siblings, Francie and Johnny, to be dead. But he's about to discover just how wrong a man can be…

As you know if you've been following my version of the _Laramie_ Universe, I have it that the third of the Harpers who escaped the fire set by the raiding Bannisters was Jess's younger brother, Johnny (an entirely invented character: though Jess tells Trim Stuart, in "Men of Defiance," that three of them did escape, he doesn't specify who they were; previously, in "Fugitive Road," we're told that one of them was a sister, Francie—and in that he gains the impression that she has committed suicide—but the identity of the third is never canonically established). At this time Johnny—the sibling to whom Jess was closest, and the one who looked up to him as a hero and model—was 12; he died of cholera three years later, while Jess was at war. But I began to wonder—if in the Wild Heart AU Matt and Mary Sherman could have lived beyond their canonical death dates, why couldn't Johnny also have survived beyond the fate I originally gave him? If he did, what would he have ended up doing when he grew to manhood? Why couldn't Jess have thought all along that _both_ Johnny and Francie were dead? What would happen if he found out they weren't? What would his relationship with Johnny look like when both were grown to manhood—and especially if Johnny discovered that Big Brother had found himself a new family? And—since Johnny (in "Panhandle Farewell") extracted Jess's promise to "come for him" when he turned 15 and let him help run Frank Bannister to earth—how would Johnny have reacted when Jess didn't show up?

This began to look as convoluted as anything I'd written so far, and therefore intriguing. So I decided to give it a try. Readers should know going in that the story takes place (like its canonical model, "Shadow of the Past") in the analogue of early fourth season, but that owing to Jess's various absences in First, it's been a bit more than four full years (not three as in my mainline Universe) since he came to live at Sherman Ranch. Also, in this reality, the events of the First-Season ep "Fugitive Road" (for reasons that will become apparent) never took place.

FURTHER NOTE: I had actually planned to post several more stories in the Wild Heart reality before this one—beginning with the follow-up to "Wild Heart" itself, in which Jess and his new family go to Denver and find themselves in a Situation. But this is the one that started talking to me first. It was actually set down in November, 2015, but with one thing and another the others just haven't gotten around to being written yet. All the same, I do promise that, as time and inspiration—or rather Alt-Jess deciding to come clean—permit, there will be others. (After all, I have to tell you how Mike and Daisy joined the ranch family, among other things…)

Many thanks to Jan, for providing detailed instructions on how to chapterize a fic, and to Noelle, as always, for everything.

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**Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, ****late May, 1874:**

It wasn't quite three in the afternoon as he made his way down the street toward Eva Rose Pollard's cozy little cottage. A peculiar time to go callin', some might have said, but girls who worked in dance halls, like their sisters in saloons and bordellos, operated on a different schedule than ordinary folks. The Pastime opened for business around seven, and the dancing started at eight; on a Saturday night it sometimes went till half-past four in the morning, and even in mid-week it was likely to keep on at least till midnight or so. That meant by the time a girl got home, got her clothes off and her hair down, and got her eight hours' worth, it would be anywhere between nine A.M. and past one in the afternoon. And then she might have errands, or household chores…

He'd never been a man to pleasure himself with the kind of boughten woman who was more or less obligated to fall into bed with any man who walked through the door; he preferred the kind who had some choices, the kind he had to work a little to get. That made it more fun. But, being a Texan and therefore automatically deeply respectful of "sacred womanhood," he didn't mess with the decent kind either. For one thing, it was too likely to bring about something permanent, which he wasn't ready for just yet, and for another, it could get fatal real fast if people began getting the wrong impression. So, as a rule, he confined his attentions to the girls who worked in the bars and dance halls. Though shunned by the "respectable" women, they weren't necessarily prostitutes, and indeed most resented being treated as such or getting the name. Some were widows, or had husbands who were missing or worthless, and in such cases they frequently had children. Many were needy women of good morals forced to earn a living in a time that offered few means for women to do so; many others were refugees from mills, farms, and lonely stage stations, lured by posters and handbills advertising high wages "paid promptly in gold every week," easy work, and fine clothing. They had to wear "paint" and "short" skirts (usually ending at mid-calf), but this troubled them only the first night.

Those who were officially unattached were seldom virgins, they took lovers freely and lived with them openly, but they weren't for rent. They had their own places to live and sleep, their morals outside working hours were their own affair, and often they conducted themselves as decently as circumstances permitted. Their job was to dance with the men, talk to them, perhaps flirt with them a bit, and induce them to buy drinks and maybe drop some money at the tables in the places that employed them. Most were considered "good" girls by the men they danced with; some received lavish gifts, like silver-heeled dancing shoes, from admirers, or acted as devoted nurses during local epidemics, and sometimes they were "adopted" and celebrated in song by some cow outfit. Nor did they consider their positions at all hopeless: many, especially those from the dance halls, married well, for the livelier men—and men with the gumption to go West were likely to be lively, especially if also young and hearty—preferred a high-spirited woman to a prune-faced choir singer.

The dance girl, in particular, was somewhat inclined to think herself superior to even inhabitants of the priciest parlor houses, and not without reason, for soiled doves often found there was more money to be made in a dance house than on their backs. Though it generally offered faro and poker, the chief attraction of such a place was, as its name suggested, the dancing, for which it always had a piano, however tinny and out of tune, and, after the bar, the most precious piece of equipment in the place. The piano player, or "perfesser," was almost but not quite the equal of the bartender; to receive a condescending nod from him, or have him accept a drink at one's expense, was an honor treasured by the humble customer. As the place acquired "tone," he was often joined by a banjo player and a fiddler, but they never attained his rarefied level.

The dances ranged from waltzes to Varsoviennes to mazurkas and schottisches. You bought a ticket, which cost anywhere from fifty cents to a dollar, the proceeds generally being split down the middle by the girl who initialed it and the owner of the hall. At the end of each turn, which lasted from five to fifteen minutes, the fiddler (or the bartender if there was none) called out, "Gents, balance your partners up to the bar!," and the girls immediately and deftly steered their partners to the counter, where the men downed a shot of one- to four-bit whiskey and the ladies something that purported to be champagne, though Eva Rose had confided that it was really (depending on the particular joint you were in) cold tea, pink lemonade, or colored sugar water. At a dollar a glass, it (and the whiskey to a lesser extent, of course) was also how the place made its profit, with the girl getting a kickback on both her drink and her partner's. After these were consumed, the bartender rapped the bar with his bungstarter as a signal to the girls to "weigh out," or sit down for a minute and "get their steam up," and incidentally initial the tickets for the next go-'round, after which the whole thing started over again. Paying too much attention to any one girl was discouraged—not overtly, but the owners lost more girls to marriage than any other fate.

A popular girl—and one who was a truly good dancer, even if somewhat plain, was likely to be very popular—could average fifty dances in a night, though that naturally varied with the length of them: no mean feat considering the vigorous stomping and whirling of customers intent on getting their money's worth; and at fifty per cent of the ticket and drink prices, she could pull in a very tidy sum indeed, ranging from eighty-odd cents a round to more than two dollars, and a minimum income of better than $40 a night, with an average of $115 on Saturdays, at a time when many men didn't make that much in a month—which meant, in turn, that even paying ten or twelve dollars per for her working dresses, she didn't have to work more than three nights a week if she didn't want to. Since even a girl in a high-class bordello generally made no more than fifty dollars if the man stayed all night—and often was perpetually in debt to her madam, who paid for her clothing, jewelry, and perfume as well as providing room and board—the dance girl could claim considerably more on a busy night, and with no risk of pregnancy or getting roughed up. Chiefly because of the strange hours at which she went home, she usually shared quarters with another girl from her particular hall, but there were always a few, like Eva Rose, who preferred to go solo.

He and Eva Rose had made an item of themselves almost as soon as he rolled into town, and he was going to miss her, he had to admit, but business called. His partner would be waiting for him at the Territorial Bar, had gone to get their horses out of the livery so they wouldn't have to waste time getting on the road; as it was they'd have to make camp at the foot of the pass and do the best part of the trip tomorrow.

He turned in at the swing gate into the picket-fenced yard, walked up the flagstone path to the low-built white clapboard cottage with its full-width, slender-columned gallery—actually an extension of that of the house, invested with a suitably Victorian air by cutting fanciful silhouettes with a bandsaw and applying two mirror-image ones to the top of each porch post. There was a big double window looking out onto the porch, a single one in each end, another in the gable above it, and a central chimney that vented both the kitchen stove and the sitting-room fireplace; the whole thing rented for only fifty dollars a year, garden and all, which was a lot less than even the cheapest boarding house would charge, supposing that any respectable one would accept a dance-hall girl. A white needlework Swiss lace curtain fluttered out the half-open window alongside the door, stirred by the warm May breeze. He stepped up onto the porch and rapped briskly on the blue-painted wood.

There was no answer. No opening of the door, not even a muffled "Coming!" or "Who's there?"

He frowned. He'd told her two days ago that they was aimin' to leave town today, and she'd been the one to tell him to be sure he came by to say goodbye, because if he didn't do it then he'd have to wait till the Pastime opened, and a crowded noisy dance hall was hardly the best place for it, plus which it would mean he and his friend would have to stay over yet another night; not that they couldn't afford to, but neither was ever all that comfortable in a hotel. So it had been her idea; it wasn't that she hadn't known he was comin'.

He knocked again, and put his ear against the door to listen. Maybe she was sick?

There—a sound, just the faintest whisper of one; he couldn't make out exactly what it might be, but he knew it meant something inside, something bigger than the dog and two cats she shared her home with.

"Eva Rose?" he demanded through the wood. "Eva Rose, it's me, I know you're there."

"Go 'way." Not loud, not angry—almost more a whimper than anything. Now he was well and truly sure that there was something not right: instincts hard-learned from boyhood and sharpened over more than a decade of work and travel were wide awake, lighting all the lamps and inviting the neighbors in.

"Ain't doin' no such of a thing," he replied. "Eva Rose, you let me in now or I'm comin' in whether you like it or not."

There was a hesitation, and then he heard the bolt being released and the knob slowly turning. The door opened into cool dimness, and he wondered why the shades were drawn. Shoulders prickling, he dropped a hand to the gun at his side and stepped cautiously over the threshold. "Eva Rose? Where are you?"

"Here. Behind the door."

He wrapped a hand around the edge of it and pulled it toward him. She made no effort to hold it, but flinched aside as he stepped toward her. The door opened into a sort of small foyer, from which the stairs went up to the low-pitched garret-attic overhead; to the right opened the sitting room—such a little house couldn't have a parlor, of course—and directly ahead the kitchen, with the bedroom opening off the end of it. When it was rainy or cold or windy, Eva Rose had told him, and you were tightly snug and warm in your little shack and didn't have far to go for any convenience you wanted, you felt sorry for people with a dozen rooms who had to do all that worrying. In the whitewashed kitchen, where the two of them had gotten into the habit of having a snack before anything else, there was a big dark-red hooked rug on the floor, and three black cats on it; they had yellow wool eyes that were very bright and catty despite evidently having been walked over for a good many years. The table was covered with a red-and-white checked cloth, and there was a dish cupboard with shelves trimmed with white, scalloped lace paper, and usually a cat thinking away on his bench. In the bedroom, dark-blue velvet curtains and a matching frill, with black fringing, blocked out the morning sunlight so Eva Rose could get her sleep without being disturbed; the furniture was mostly spindle-turned cottage, painted in lilac and blue with groups of flowers, very fresh and simple, except for the brass four-poster bed, which had a peaked canopy, pineapple finials, and a scrollwork panel in an otherwise plain headboard of horizontal rails.

As for the sitting room, it might have belonged to any modest family in any small town. There were pictures on the walls, white lace curtains at the windows, a blue‑flowered carpet on the floor, a dainty mahogany table with graceful curved legs, several rocking chairs, and a bookcase that was filled mostly with novels—Hawthorne, Cooper, Irving—and a few volumes of poetry: Longfellow, Lowell, Whittier, some of the English poets. On the center table lay the most recent numbers of _The Ladies' Repository_ (which came all the way from Cincinnati), _Demorest's Illustrated Monthly Magazine,_ and the _Chicago Magazine of Fashion, Music, and Home Reading,_ which, she had told him, was published and edited entirely by women, besides _Frank Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper_. There was a Chinese-red upright piano, and on its rack a collection of the songs of Stephen Foster, a volume or two of those of Tom Moore, the waltzes from _The Black Crook,_ "The Officer's Funeral," "Susan Jane," minstrel tunes, even a few hymns (Eva Rose had been raised in a Congregationalist home)—"My Faith Looks Up to Thee," "Our Kind Creator," "I Love to Steal Awhile Away," "Wake the Song of Jubilee." There was a picture of Queen Victoria at her coronation and another of King William (Mary's William, not the Queen's father) riding his white horse across the Boyne; one that showed a marble cross, poised on a dark rock in a raging ocean, yet lavishly garnished with flowers and with a huge open Bible on a purple cushion at its foot; the _Burial of the Pet Bird,_ and mottoes worked in wool—_Home, Sweet Home, Onward and Upward; _a gay picture of Daniel in the Lions' Den, another of an angel carrying a baby, presumably to Heaven, and one of three white kittens with blue eyes, playing with a ball of silk thread gloriously tangled about them. A true home, and one that always made him think of the one he had lost, all those years ago; not because the two had been similar in size or construction, and certainly not because of the furniture or the number of people living there, but because it was welcoming and friendly and comfortable, a place where a man could throw himself down in a chair, put his feet up and reach down to knead the ears of a friendly dog, where he could have a smoke or a drink if he wanted one, and just relax and talk and let himself be who he was.

She was wearing a light green nightgown with a lime-green kimono over it; he'd always reckoned it was redheads who looked best in green, but Eva Rose matched any of them. Her golden-brown hair had been dressed in two braids for the night, but one was half undone and the other tumbled in disarray around her face. He squinted, then grasped her arm with the hand that had opened the door, kicked it shut behind him, and half pulled, half chivvied her to the window, reaching out with his free hand to raise the shade. She shied away, but not before he saw. There were blue-black bruises on both sides of her face, a deep cut above her right brow, marring her ivory skin; her upper lip and right temple were swollen and mottled.

All the Southern reverence for women—any women, no matter how they earned their living—rose up in wrath inside him. "What happened to you?" he demanded.

"I fell. I tripped over one of the cats in the dark." Her amber eyes refused to meet his.

"No, you didn't. Them ain't the kind of marks a body gets from fallin'. Somebody hit you, and more'n once. Eva Rose, who done you this way?"

She looked at him then, wide-eyed with fright. "Won't tell you."

"You don't and I'll go askin' the neighbors what all they seen around here since yesterday," he growled. "Or maybe I don't need to…"

The way she turned her face away, the way the tears started to come, told him all he needed to know. For a moment his anger was washed aside by concern. He took her in his arms and held her, not insistently, but gently, for comfort and protection. "It's gonna be okay," he told her. "Go on and cry if you need to. I'll be takin' care of this for you, I promise. It was Haythorn, wasn't it?"

She sniffled and nodded against his shoulder, and his voice hardened. "What else did he do?"

"Nothing," she mumbled, and then, as if she felt by the way his muscles tensed that he didn't believe her, "No—it's the truth. Whiskey—" that was her dog, probably mostly rat terrier; he'd been a gift from the bartender at the Pastime, hence his name— "flew at him, bit him two or three times around the ankles—I don't think he got through the boot, but it distracted Haythorn long enough that I could scream, and he was afraid somebody might hear, so he ran before—before he could—could do whatever else he came for. He didn't even have time to kick Whiskey off him, but then Whiskey let him go as soon as he was off the porch."

The steady burn of rage came up in his chest then, like a cold bitter fire. "Get your cloak on, and put somethin' on your feet," he ordered. "I'm takin' you to Doc Finch. And after that—" with the chill of steel— "after that, I got a man to see."

**SR**

He couldn't be sure where Haythorn would be, but he knew he'd seen the man several times in the Territorial Bar, and since that was the saloon he was most familiar with, he went there first. The main room was sixty feet by thirty, its front windows rising from a foot above the boardwalk up to ceiling level; a corner-set entrance between them was fitted with elegantly carved swinging doors. The floor, unlike that of most saloons, was white tile, perhaps in part because that was an easy surface to keep clean—and on the back bar was a framed sign that read, _If you can't stand up on a tile floor, you're drunk. Go home_. The bar ran down the right side, the long mirrors behind it crowned with rows of cattle horns and buttressed at their bases with rows of bottles; on the left were the gambling tables—poker nearest the front, doubling as seating accommodations for drinkers uninterested in gambling, then dice, roulette, a squirrel cage and blackjack table, and a faro rig at the back. Off the rear, an extension provided room for games where limit and bets were set by the players. There was a big painting of a stagecoach coming in, a bright-colored print of a pale-skinned Indian princess in front of a waterfall, and several pieces of bronze statuary, including a nude titled _The Wistful Captive,_ probably somebody's take on _The Greek Slave_. He stepped in and immediately to the side, to pause a moment and take a look around. As his eyes swept across the room he spotted his partner, standing quietly at the end of the bar, and saw the other man's bland expression change as years together told him that something wasn't right.

He catalogued his friend and continued his scan of the room, pausing when he spotted the glass-eyed rattlesnake-skin hatband, so incongruous against the dusty-black, slouch-brimmed Stetson it embellished. Quietly he began moving around the perimeter of the room toward that table. Haythorn was playing poker with three other men—not a high-stakes game, judging by the size of the pot, just a casual one, to pass the time—and he wondered, for a moment, at the man's sheer brass; didn't he think that Eva Rose might tell someone what had happened? The highest crime of all, in Western eyes, was to "mess" with a "decent" woman; next to that, horse- and cow-stealing and even murder were only secondary—and indeed, if you failed to treat a woman of _any_ kind with deference, or even accidentally jostled her on the street, you were likely to find yourself flat on your back with a bloody nose, while a pale, furious avenger stood over you, reading you a brief, pungent lecture. If a woman got off a stage at a station to get something to eat, and a man didn't get up to offer her a place at the table, somebody else knocked him off his seat. Any man who insulted a woman became a social outcast, and if he mistreated one he was killed sooner or later, even if someone had to get drunk to do it. Even some pretty mean outlaws had been known to kill or even lynch a man for bothering a woman, and one who lived alone, miles from anyone, was safe as a church as far as any real cowman was concerned. But then, Haythorn wasn't a cowman; he was out of the Middle Border, or so the talk had it. Maybe he just didn't realize how grave was the act he'd committed. _He'll find out, soon enough._

At the bar, his friend watched his progress, reaching down to lay a hand on his gun. They could read each other's faces pretty accurately after all this time, and they knew each other's character too; he was quite well aware that once the younger man was this far gone in anger there was no stopping him, short of a clout over the head or a quick left to the jaw, neither of which he was near enough to administer. So he'd do the next best thing: stand ready and keep an eye until his partner finished his business, whatever it might be, be ready to back him up at need, and wait till later to get his explanation.

Haythorn was a sallow man with dark-brown hair, and except for the flashy New Mexico hatband he was simply dressed—a chambray shirt, charcoal-gray pants, a buckskin vest with leather buttons. He was probably only a year or two older than the man who was about to challenge him, but the mark of the killer was on him: pale-green eyes cloudy and expressionless, a hawkish, scarred face as inscrutable as a rock slab—and the strange, tight-skinned shine to it that some people get after surviving smallpox. He wore his gun—a converted Colt Model 1860 New Army with black thornwood buttplates added—on the left, which matched with the injuries on Eva Rose's right.

"You, Haythorn. I got business with you." It wasn't said loudly, but everyone near enough to hear it over the background buzz of conversation looked around, and chairs began to scrape as men got ready to move out of the way. Others picked up on the sense of imminent violence, and a silence spread about the room.

Haythorn took his time looking up, meeting the other's steady regard with a faint arrogant smile. "I figured we settled that," he said quietly.

"_That,_ yeah." He hadn't been exactly happy about sharing Eva Rose's time with this fellow, but he knew it was her business to dance with any man who paid the price. When Haythorn tried to steal a kiss, that had been different. It hadn't even required her previous partner's intervention, though he'd been more than ready to provide some. In most bars and dance halls the proprieties were strictly observed, as much because Western men tended to revere all women as because the women or the owner wanted it that way, and anyone who disregarded them usually found himself in trouble. As had Haythorn: the bartender had booted him out into the street and told him not to come back. He hadn't. "Today I got another bone to pick with you. Or didn't you reckon on me findin' out what you done to Eva Rose last night? You're a cur, Haythorn. No, not that. I got nothin' against a dog. But I got plenty against you."

Haythorn's poker partners came more alert, if that was possible, at mention of a woman's name. "What was it he did, friend?" one of them inquired.

"Not as much as he'd'a' liked to, but that don't matter. You go ask Doc Finch; he'll tell you the shape Haythorn left her in. Plain luck she ain't dead." His face was a cold expressionless mask, the lips pulled into a thin tight line, the dark bars of his eyebrows drawn down over cobalt eyes gone near-black with rage. The other poker players pushed their chairs back and drew away from the table, keeping their hands well away from their guns, making it abundantly clear that they had no intention of mixing into this quarrel. Nobody dived for cover: it was clear that these were no amateurs, but experienced fighters who would know what they were aiming at. Only those who saw that they might be in the direct line of fire from one or the other edged back out of the way.

He found his balance and settled himself, poised and ready. "Time's done for talkin', Haythorn. I'm givin' you better'n you deserve, and better'n you give her. Now stand up and take what's comin' to you!"

Haythorn came erect, slowly, almost casually, with the confident air of one who knows—or perhaps only thinks he knows—exactly what his capabilities are as opposed to his enemy's. He kicked his chair back out of the way and moved carefully three or four steps to the side, though that still kept him within the short-range distance at which speed tended to trump accuracy, a matter of twenty feet or less. "All right," he said, still quietly—and drew.

The bullet whistled over his opponent's head as the younger man dropped and rolled. The second shot didn't miss. Haythorn lurched backward, breaking in the middle, and collapsed on the tile floor, his blood spattering across it as he hit. There was a moment of silence, then the screams began—the terrible, grating, gargling screams of a gut-shot man, harsh squalls that ripped out of him as fast as he drew breath.

For another moment the room was dead still as the victor climbed to his feet, his gun levelled, not so much for Haythorn's sake—anyone could see he was out of action, and not long for this world besides—as for any partisans he might have. "You!" A snapped summons to the bartender. "Pack his mouth up with a towel, we don't need to be listenin' to him dyin'."

The 'tender took a breath as if to say something, then looked at the blazing eyes and changed his mind. As he slowly advanced to obey, one of the poker players said, "You did that a-purpose."

"You care?" he demanded. "He somethin' to you? You want to try takin' up for him?"

"No," said the other. "I don't no more care for a man that beats women up than you do. He got what he deserved." A murmur of agreement went around the room.

He spun on his heel as the batwings crashed open and the assistant town marshal barreled into the room with sawed-off shotgun in hand, skidded to a stop and swept a look around, taking in the position of the chairs, of the shooter, the dying man on the floor, the body language of the onlookers. "What happened here?" he demanded. "Cornelius—" (that was the bartender) "you tell it."

The mixologist obliged him, succinctly recounting in his lilting Irish brogue the events leading up to the exchange of gunfire. "'T'was a fair fight," he finished, "and I'll say here and now that I'm ready to believe what the lad claimed. I've seen a deal too much of Haythorn this last month or so, and heard more; he could be brother to the Devil and surprise no one."

The deputy was new in Cheyenne, only a month on the job; he'd heard of Jess Harper, who was a friend of Marshal Ives's, but had never met him. He was, however, in charge of the office for the present, Ives having been called out of the Territory to attend his father's funeral and help settle the man's estate. He glanced around at the other witnesses, waiting to see if anyone would dispute Cornelius's version of recent events. When no one did, he looked at Haythorn again and nodded, then faced the victor, the shotgun loose in his left hand and his right held well away from his sidearm. "All right. There'll probably have to be a coroner's inquest, but I don't see that you've got any trouble coming, not from the law, anyway. Are you staying in town?"

"Could, but rather not. Got some business to see to."

"Well, you can give a deposition—shouldn't take more than half an hour or so. You understand, though, I'll have to write a report for the marshal, for when he gets back. He'll have to know who did the shooting. What name do you go by?"

He hesitated a moment, then, "Most call me the Amarillo Kid."

With everyone concentrating on the assistant marshal and his questions—or on Haythorn, struggling to breathe around the bar-cloth that muffled his agony—no one paid much attention when the watcher at the end of the bar quietly slipped out of the room while the deputy was getting his facts together. He was waiting in the agreed-upon place with their horses when the Kid appeared, some forty minutes later. _"¿Habla problemas, __compañero_ [will there be trouble]?" he asked, using Spanish as they often did when they were alone.

"_No de esto_[not from this]," the Kid answered in the same language, as he stuck his toe into the stirrup and came up. _"__No de la ley, al menos_ [not from the law, at least]."

/"I have heard it said,"/ the other observed, /"that Haythorn comes of a large family."/

/"This would hardly surprise me,"/ said the Kid. /"So did I. But if they look for me, it will be under the name I gave back there. I will not be using it, on the other side of the mountains."/ He turned his horse. _"Andalé!"_

**SR**

**Huntsville, Texas, about a month later:**

There was a red-trimmed buggy waiting for Ben McKittrick when he stepped out through the gates of the plain red-brick building that had been his home for the last two years, and alongside it a catfish-gray horse whose rider wore a frock coat, the trademark of a lawyer, but in bottle-green since he wasn't in court. "Ben," the buggy's driver said in a breathless voice as he walked up to it and paused. "Oh, Ben."

"Francie." He hesitated just a few seconds, aware of the watching guards on the wall, and then he thought, _To hades with 'em! They got no more say over me, and I don't give a loud horn toot in a thunderstorm what they think—she's my wife!_ And with that he reached up, pulled her to him, and held her tight and close, his lips warm and hungry on hers, drawing strength from the vibrant feel of her body and the arms that circled him in return.

"Ben… Ben…" she whispered, as their first deep prolonged kiss gave way to an exchange of shorter ones.

"You're not gonna cry, are you?" he asked, a faint tremor underlying the teasing tone.

"I'm not sure I've got any cryin' left in me, after these two years," she said, and tucked her head under his chin, her cheek against his chest. "Anyway, I'm too happy to cry. You're free. We're together."

"And will be from now on if I got anything to say about it," he agreed, and then looked up, over her head, at the man in the frock coat. "John Campbell. I was expectin' Francie, but not you."

"Couldn't let my greatest success resume his life without being there to wish him well," the lawyer replied, and leaned out of the saddle to shake hands. "I know it's a fool question, but how are you, Ben?"

"I don't know as I've quite figured that out yet," Ben admitted. He was a Missouri Baptist by birth, but had spent most of his life in Texas; like many men who pass most of their time outdoors, he hadn't changed a lot since he was thirty or so. He was a tall man, large-boned and strongly built though not as hefty as he'd been when he began his sentence, with a rounded face and dark wavy hair just beginning to gray a bit at the temples. His face was pale and lined from long confinement and he'd lost weight on the prison diet, but he was in better shape than many of the men among whom he had lived during his sentence. That was partly thanks to John Campbell Carewe, and partly to the shrewd and plain-spoken Honorable Judge Andrew Jackson Steele. In a rather complicated bargain, Carewe, in exchange for Ben's agreement to waive trial and thereby save the county expense, had gotten the charge against him reduced from first-degree murder to negligent homicide, on the argument (advanced privately in chambers) that the Keefer family was no particular loss to the great state of Texas, a sentiment with which Judge Steele agreed, admitting that if it were entirely up to him, he'd sooner have given Ben a medal, but being a politician he had to give some heed to the sentiments of the Keefers' friends. As for the latter, they hadn't kicked much once the Judge, a month or so later, in the course of probating the estate of men who'd died without wills, gave them the chance to buy the Keefers' ten sections at 62½c. per acre—$4000 all told, and only about 17% above the price generally charged by Texas for the choicest and best-watered parcels of her land. Meanwhile, he had imposed an indeterminate sentence, with a maximum term of three years but subject to abatement if Ben behaved himself (as he had, hence the total of two that he had actually served), and, in private correspondence, had made it clear to the warden at Huntsville that Ben was a particular interest of his.

Huntsville Prison, constructed and opened in 1849, had the reputation by now of being the toughest such institution in the West; men weighted down with chains worked on road gangs or the rock piles under the convict lease system that had been initiated in '67, or in the prison's own woollen and cotton mills. Flogging was an everyday occurrence—state law forbade a man's being hit more than thirty-nine times, but plenty got the limit—and escape attempts were met with it or with fifteen days in solitary. But there was also a bakery, a wheelwright's shop, shoemaker's shop, and leatherworking shop—the soft, plum jobs, if a man could get them—and it was in these that Ben had spent his sentence. He knew he'd gotten off lightly, and he was grateful; not that it wasn't hard for him to adjust to confinement, but it could have been worse, a lot worse, and he'd resolved from the beginning that he'd do everything he could to make sure Carewe and the judge didn't regret what they'd done for him.

"You'll work it out," said Carewe, with a smile. "Francie'll see to that, I think. Speaking of whom, I think she'd rather I left the two of you alone. I just wanted to make sure you knew that if there's anything I can do to help you get your life restarted, all you have to do is ask."

"I'll hold that in mind," Ben promised, and they shook hands again. "I know I said this before I went in, but I'm obliged to you, John Campbell."

The younger man grinned. "No, you're not. Your case made my name. The way I look at it, we're even. Francie, you take good care of this fellow." And he turned his gray and headed for town at a canter.

"Get in," Francie said, and he put his carpetbag in the bonnet—as the law provided, all the personal property he'd had with him when he began his term had been returned to him in the warden's office less than half an hour ago, civilian clothes, gun, money—and climbed in beside her. Francie gathered the lines in and clicked her tongue to the single horse, which set off willingly. The slim yellow wheels made no sound against the bare earth surface of the road. "I know what you need," she said. "A good long hot bath first, and then a proper meal, and then—and then me. So we'll head for the barbershop first."

"No," he said, "no, there's one place I want to go before that."

She looked around at him in surprise. "Where?"

"Give me those lines, and I'll show you."

**SR**

The headstone was small, but made of marble. The chiseled line representation of an empty cradle represented the unfulfilled life of the child whose resting place it marked, and underneath that was the simple legend:

_Our Darling  
Phoebe Nell McKittrick  
January 16, __1873__-August 29, __1873_

"Wish I could'a' got to hold her, even. Just that, just once," Ben said quietly, and laid his hand softly on the curved top of the marker. "Hello, little darlin'. You know your old dad?"

Francie watched over his shoulder, fingering the gold ring that hung around her neck on a chain—a mourning ring, with a tiny inset plait of hair, and in the back the same name, with the date of the baby's death, and her age—_8 months, 13 days_. Properly she should have been in mourning for her daughter; it had been not quite ten months, and you were supposed to mourn visibly for a child for a year—six months in "deep" and "full" mourning, then four and a half in "second," or "dressy," mourning, then six weeks of "ordinary mourning," and maybe another three of half mourning after that besides. But for a woman who had to support herself while her husband paid his debt to society, especially when she did it as a dry-goods salesclerk, that wasn't possible; her customers expected her to be conventionally, and well, dressed, to be an example of what they could be if they followed her advice regarding fabric, patterns, trims. She had compromised by eschewing light or bright colors and sprightly patterns since Nell's death, and was wearing a green crepe that went well with her cinnamon-brown hair and hazel eyes.

The baby had died of "cholera infantum," a general catch-all term for almost anything that produced diarrhea and vomiting in infants, especially in summer; at first Francie had thought it was only summer complaint, which was bad enough, being an acute condition of diarrhea, but since an infant's small body dehydrated much faster than an adult's, the delay in treatment was likely to be fatal. "I'm so sorry, Ben," she said.

He looked around. "Wasn't your fault, Francie. Could've happened even if I hadn't been in prison. Could've happened to any baby around that time of year."

"Doesn't make it easier, knowin' that," she said in a compressed voice.

He stood up and took her in his arms. "I know it was rough for you. I wish there'd been somethin' I could've done to take some of it off you. I wish I could make it up to you."

She sniffled once loudly and shook her head, forcing a smile. "I won't lie, Ben. I miss her somethin' dreadful, I guess I always will. Sometimes I wonder if I should have given her that name. You remember, I'd been readin' _The Old Curiosity Shop,_ and Little Nell was such a bright, beautiful child… I wanted our baby to be like her. I should've remembered that she dies in the end." Before he could say anything, she added quickly: "But that's only fancy. I know it's not real. It's just… I've lost so much…"

"I know," he said quietly, and pulled her to him. She leaned into his strength, savoring his nearness, the knowledge that nobody could take him from her again.

"We should go," she said after a while. "The dining room at the hotel opens for supper at six, and you still have to get that bath."

"Sure you're okay?"

"As much as I can be," she said, and they turned back toward the waiting buggy.

**SR**

The barbershops in Huntsville were well accustomed to filling the needs of men newly set free, and the one Francie took him to was no exception. He made the bath last, savoring the steaming water, the good feel of the soap. After that there was a shampoo, shave, and haircut, with plenty of bay rum, and then, dressed in his own clothes and with his sixgun at his side—he'd left the ill-fitting prison-issue suit to be thrown into the refuse barrel—he went on to the Metropolitan Hotel to meet Francie, who had taken the buggy back to the stable she'd rented it from. Any town with any pretensions or ambitions had a hotel, and in the larger and more important communities they could be quite impressive. The Metropolitan was Huntsville's biggest, and it reminded Ben somewhat of the Menger in San Antonio: three storeys high, shallow bay windows overlooking the street on all the accommodations floors, and an elegant plush-and-marble lobby with gas lamps, elaborately-scrolled columns, large potted plants, and a mahogany counter with a wooden-grille lair for the clerk. Wide, carpeted stairs led from it to the upper floors. Francie was waiting in one of the rich leather chairs, reading the latest _Godey's,_ and he noticed for the first time that there was a valise on the thick rug beside her feet. "What's that for?" he asked, nodding toward it. "I can see you wantin' to have me to yourself for supper, but I figured we'd be goin' back to your boarding house afterward. Or doesn't Mrs. Kirchner want a jailbird in her parlor?"

"You hush," said she. "As for the valise, ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies. As for Mrs. Kirchner, she's told me at least five times in the last two weeks that you're welcome for as long as it takes you to find your feet. Now, let's go get some decent food into you."

On reflection he decided he could understand the landlady's attitude. Texas had been a magnet for foreign immigrants since before the Republic, with Germans being especially notable. Some had come in singly or as families after the failure of the Revolution of 1830, and some intellectuals fleeing the similarly-fated one of '48 had followed suit; these had tended to assimilate quickly. But the great mass had arrived in organized groups—so many that the country from the Brazos to the Colorado came to be called "Little Germany," and from the Colorado to the Rio "Greater Germany." With the outbreak of the recent war, many in the German community were uncomfortable with the new order. Few of them owned slaves, and many didn't believe in the institution. They also tended to feel a loyalty to their new country and didn't support secession. Some—probably chiefly those who had adapted to Texan frontier life rather than trying to create a transplanted European society—did follow Hood, but many more stayed at home while the native-born were off fighting. The Texans called them Dutch Yankees, and they called the Texans Rebels. And the Indian trouble made it worse. It didn't take the Comanches long to learn that the country was stripped of fighting men, leaving only oldsters, boys, and women to defend most places. In some areas whole neighborhoods were wiped out; Clay County, on the Red River, was virtually abandoned in '62, white settlers (of whom the 1860 census had found only 109) fleeing it wholesale and refugeeing eastward to more populated regions. But the German settlers, whose men were still home, weren't bothered much, and people couldn't help noticing this. This wasn't to say that the Germans escaped unscathed; although they'd made a treaty with the Peneteka Comanches in 1847, having argued convincingly that their people were neither Texans nor Mexicans (two tribes the Indians hated) but _Alemanes_ (the Spanish for German), in later years the Indians, embittered by other white aggressions, couldn't easily distinguish between one kind of Caucasian and another, and after 1860 much German hair adorned Comanche lodgepoles.

Several Germans, including one Fritz Tegener, organized a militia, known as the Union Loyal League, to protect areas of Kendall, Gillespie, and Kerr Counties from Indian raids and Confederate action. In July of '62, on account of draft resistance by the men of the German communities, these three counties, along with Edwards and Kimble, were declared in open rebellion against the Confederacy, and Colonel James M. Duff, who commanded an irregular unit called Duff's Partisan Rangers, was ordered to take vigorous measures to support the insurrection. Tegener, with the rank of Major, was appointed leader of a group of Unionists that attempted to make their way to the Mexican border, many with the intention of joining the Union Army. Just one day from the Rio, they were overtaken by ninety-four Confederates under one Lieutenant McRae. The Germans, whose numbers were variously reported as between sixty-one and sixty-eight, were at a disadvantage, and before sunrise on the morning of August 10 McRae began firing on them, killing nineteen and wounding nine more, who were captured and later executed. The rest fled. Eight were killed by Confederates on October 18, while trying to cross into Mexico; eleven reached home, and most of the others escaped temporarily to Mexico or to California. Some of the survivors eventually joined Unionist forces headquartered in New Orleans. Tegener was seriously wounded but got away; his family claimed he lived in Mexico and worked as a gold miner till the war ended. Quite naturally, the Germans were just as angry over this as the Anglos were over their political apostasy. So there was still a good deal of ill feeling hanging on from those days. Probably Mrs. Kirchner, being a German, figured that it was her duty to welcome a man about whom many people might have doubts, just as they still had them about her own people.

Taking in boarders, being a natural extension of a woman's "natural" role as housekeeper and nurturer, was almost the first thing a woman thought of doing if she found herself obliged to pay her own way in life, and therefore every small town had at least one boarding house; a major city—like Austin, say—was likely to have over a hundred, and a large town would have five or six, containing several hundred inhabitants between them, while some had as many as twenty. They ranged through the full spectrum of luxury, from fashionable ones where the menu was elaborate and the landlady usually a "gentlewoman" who'd been left a widow with a luxurious establishment and a pittance, to cheap, fly-blown, scarcely-weathertight old buildings redolent of cabbage and presided over by slovenly, viper-tongued women who contended that they had "seen better days." In the middle ground, and probably representing the majority, was a genteel area of middle-class decency and respectability, and among these the German women were likely to be prominent, being known as cleanly, industrious, and very fond of good food, particularly sausages and baked goods. All were patronized chiefly by bachelors, spinsters, widows, and young couples saving for establishments of their own; young single women tended to live with kin. Most were small, accommodating perhaps eight or ten guests, but some were quite large; Ben had heard of one in Colorado that took nearly eighty. Besides these, and distinct from them, there were families who took in a boarder or two—chiefly young single folks or elderly ones—or employers whose young unmarried male workers boarded with their families. Many genteel people sought homelike atmospheres with pleasant furnished rooms and good cooking, and middle- and even upper-class women with some room to spare often took in this type rather than starting an actual boarding house.

Ben had never seen Francie's boarding house, but she had brought a photograph of it to show him one visiting day at the prison. It was a three-storey Italianate cube, four rooms per floor, with four chimneys (two on each side), a center cupola, and two tall oblong windows on each side of each level. He'd been duly impressed by the dignity of the full-height porch pillars and their Roman arches, repeated in the cupola windows. An impressive decorative cast-iron balcony had been added at the front of each upper floor; the family quarters were on the second, and the boarders slept on the third. Ben knew, as indeed did Francie, that she'd been lucky to find the kind of job she had. Ever since about the late '50's, an attitude had grown up that to be a dry-goods salesclerk—a "counter-jumper"—was an occupation suitable for only the most effete of men. Since most men didn't want to be thought effete, the field was left wide open for women—who, since dry goods were generally bought by female customers anyway, were actually better equipped to do the work than a man would be. It paid eight dollars a week—$416 per year—and while that was barely enough to bring up a family on, it was entirely adequate for a woman who had no one but herself to take care of, especially when her room cost her only fifteen dollars a month, meals, laundry, and a bath once a week included, and she got a reduction on anything she wanted to buy out of the store stock to keep her wardrobe well supplied.

The Metropolitan's bar opened off the lobby to the left, the dining room, with its white linen tablecloths, red plush carpet, and gilt trim, to the right. The waitress must have been warned ahead of time, for she proved both solicitous and efficient, wasting no time about whisking empty dishes away or refilling coffee cups. Ben would have just about killed for some fried chicken, or maybe a steak smothered in onions, but Francie knew better than to shock his stomach with such rich food, and they shared a golden chicken pie, delicately fluted around the edges, with cream and hard-boiled eggs in it, and an assortment of pickles on the side—pickled figs, pickled watermelon rind, pickled tomatoes—and cherry pie for dessert. They took their time, savoring the meal, drinking in each other's nearness, one often reaching across the table to touch the other as if in need of reassurance.

"I almost hate to think of havin' to get up and walk all that off to get to Mrs. Kirchner's place," Ben said at last.

"You don't have to," Francie said, a twinkle appearing in her eyes. "I've made other arrangements for tonight." She slipped her hand into his. "Come on."

The desk clerk greeted them with a smile. "Good evenin', Mrs. McKittrick. And Mr. McKittrick. Welcome to the Metropolitan, sir. Here's your key, ma'am," he said, passing a tagged one across the counter.

"We're stayin' here the night?" Ben asked in surprise as Francie steered him deftly toward the stairs.

"We are," she said, and her smile widened. "In the Bridal Suite. We never got much of a honeymoon, after all."

It wasn't acceptable to openly express approval of a shooting, the victim being likely to have friends who'd remember such little breaches of etiquette, but there were plenty of ways of making your opinion clear, all the same. Most of Texas had heard of Ben's case, and felt that he'd been given a pretty raw deal: throughout the West, if a man was armed when shot and had been given fair warning and a chance to draw his gun, it was called not "murder," but "a killing;" if the wounds were in front, it was mostly assumed that he'd been justifiably killed. Only the lingering sense of the Keefers' local political influence had been responsible for the law bothering to go after Ben at all. Everyone in Huntsville, too, knew of the loyal wife who had moved there to be as close to him as circumstances allowed—and knew that the main reason the law had caught up with him in the first place was that he'd stopped in Galveston to nurse her through an epidemic. And probably more than one had been keeping track of when he was due to get out. So, when Francie went to the Metropolitan to inquire about a room, the owner hadn't hesitated to offer her the Bridal Suite—and not at full price.

Hotels had been providing these amenities for some thirty years, and by now any such establishment that wanted to be considered up-to-date had a fancy one. The Metropolitan's was on the second floor, with a corner sitting room, a bedroom, and a full bath. "Now," said Francie, "maybe you've begun to get a notion why I brought a valise. Sit right there, I'll be out in a few minutes. There's a box of cigars, if you want one."

They were Mexican Panatellas, and almost unbearably luxurious to a man who'd smoked nothing but heavy, strong-smelling Mexican cigarette tobacco, bought out of the nickel a day he earned for prison labor, these last two years. He settled down and lit it, savoring it slowly as he had the food, looking around between draws at the rich décor—deep, comfortable chairs, a thick rug, hand-painted milk-glass lampshades, marble-topped tables, heavy golden draperies, and imported French wallpaper. As a professional gunfighter he had always made good money, but he'd never seen much reason to blow it on fancy accommodations, and the place was beyond anything he'd ever experienced. He'd bet it cost a good five dollars a night. On the other hand, it wasn't every night a man got to be with his wife for the first time in more than two years.

After twenty minutes or so Francie came out of the bedroom with her face washed and her hair brushed and falling loose, wearing a satin-trimmed dressing gown of some butter-colored fabric with a nap to it, and mother-of-pearl buttons. "That looks real soft," said Ben, rather inanely.

"It should. It's cashmere—sixty-two cents a yard. Feel it if you want to. It's made from the long hair of Turkish goats."

He fingered it cautiously, then looked up. "Is there somethin' underneath?"

She opened the buttons, and there was a gown, matching the upper garment in color but made of what he recognized as silk. "And this," she said, "cost eighty-five, or would if I'd paid full price. Now, how about helpin' me take it off?"

He hesitated for the first time. "Francie… it's been a long time. I don't want to hurt you."

"Nothin' could hurt me as much as two years of waitin' for you, losin' our daughter, and… and some other things we can talk about later," she said. "I know you'd never _want_ to hurt me, and it's not like we never did this before, because how else did I have a baby?" She took his hands in her own. "Carry me over the threshold, Ben."

He did, and there was a fireplace with pale marble columns in which she had lit a fire, and a bed with a satin-covered canopy, besides a soft chair, a wardrobe and dresser that matched each other, and a bedside table with a lamp. The window curtains had been drawn, shutting out the world outside. Suddenly he was no longer shy. He bore her to the bed and laid her in it, blew out the lamp and undressed, and climbed in beside her.

**SR**

Afterward they sipped Cliquot champagne (which Ben privately thought wasn't half as good as honest whiskey, like his own favored Kentucky Pride, but this was Francie's celebration; she'd planned it, and he didn't want to make her feel that he didn't appreciate it) and lay side by side watching the fire and listening to the occasional sounds that filtered in through the curtains from the nighttime street. "Have you given any thought to what you want to do, now that you're out?" she asked.

"Haven't been thinkin' of much else but, the last month or so," he admitted. "I know I'm paler than milk, and I need to get back in condition. I was thinkin' maybe I could sign on with a drive; there should still be plenty leavin' for Kansas this time of year. I'd have a couple of months in the sun and the good open air—it'd do me a lot of good, I reckon. It's not about the money—I've got plenty of that put away. But now that I'm a married man, I should find somethin' I can settle down at. You're from West Texas, so you'd know that between Palo Duro and the Salt Fork of the Brazos is the greatest of all wild-horse ranges. Thousands of Spanish-blood mustangs run free up there, in every color a horse can be. I was thinkin', maybe, a horse ranch. Get a crew together, go up there and round up a hundred or so young mares, then buy three or four good stallions…"

She nodded thoughtfully. "I might have guessed you'd think horses. You're from Ellis County, after all." Ellis County, located in north-central Texas and drained by Red Oak, Waxahachie, Mill, and Chambers Creeks, which flowed into the Trinity River, was almost treeless away from the streams, except for scattered mesquite, cacti, and shrubs. In the spring the whole county oozed with waxy black mud that would fill a wagon wheel solid. But they raised good horses there, some of Tennessee blood, and so they got through the mud by saddle. Any Ellis County man, assuming his family had any money at all, would have grown up knowing good horseflesh. Texans in general were notable for a love of it, which had probably arrived out of Kentucky, but in Texas it spread to all citizens, whatever their origin; and moreover, since horseracing was by far the most popular sport and pastime in early Texas, a good horse could earn money for its owner. Thus there was a tendency for some farmers—Ben's father included—to have, or acquire, horses they really couldn't afford. Baptists were officially opposed to horseracing—not because of the racing, but because of the betting—but the senior McKittrick had declared repeatedly that he knew of no commandment in the Bible against a man making a wager. "Were you figurin' on stayin' in Texas?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I've served my time, so the state can't put ties on me, except for not allowin' me to vote; I can carry a gun, own property, even practice a profession if I want to study for one. But that's somethin' we could decide on later, after we had the horses. What would you think? I know some of your ranch memories aren't too good, with what happened to your family, and you've been livin' in towns ever since the Bradys refugeed out of Amarillo during the war."

"It's funny you should mention my family," she said slowly, "because I was wonderin' how to bring up somethin' that touches on them. You remember I told you about my brother Johnny?"

"And about Jess," he agreed. "What's got Johnny on your mind?"

"I told you how he left," she said.

Yes, she had. And why. The death of their father and three youngest siblings when the Bannister gang raided the ranch where they lived had scarred all the survivors, Francie and Johnny and Jess. Jess, fifteen at the time, had resolved to hunt down and kill Frank Bannister, and had set out alone from Amarillo to do exactly that. Francie hadn't seen him or heard from him since, although she'd heard _of_ him: around the beginning of the war he'd partnered up with Dixie Howard, the so-called "gentleman gambler-gunfighter," and eventually he'd begun to gain something of a name in the gun line himself. In fact, Ben had heard of Jess Harper well before he'd ever met Francie.

Johnny, three years younger than his brother, had always been wild and resentful, much more than Jess ever was, but to Francie, living with him day by day after they entered the Brady household, his transformation had been plain and frightening. As the years went by he turned bitter and angry and cold, and probably all that held him was that Jess had promised to "come back when you're fifteen" and let him ride along on the hunt for Bannister. When that milestone came, and Jess didn't, the Bradys were in Galveston; given the state of the wartime economy it had become all but impossible to get stock for their hardware store, and the Indians were making so much trouble that many people, perhaps particularly those who lived in the Panhandle, had found it prudent to refugee to more populated country. Vern Brady had initially planned on Brownsville because, the river being the international boundary with Mexico, the Union blockade couldn't be extended to it without the risk of creating an incident; so there was a lot of trade in and out, Texas cotton for whatever people could afford to buy, and work in plenty on the docks. His two oldest sons—Milt would have been twenty-two then (he was reported missing later that year, and had never returned), while Gil was sixteen—were off with the Confederate forces, but he still had a wife and four of his own youngsters (Harriet, nineteen; Edith, twelve; Neville, nine; and the baby, Virgil, who was born in '62, soon after they left Amarillo) to support, and Francie and Johnny besides. So Brownsville it was—until the Confederacy recaptured Galveston, always the largest port in Texas, in January of '63, and the family relocated there.

Johnny made it plain that he didn't appreciate Jess not keeping his promise, but he was a smart boy, perhaps almost the smartest of all Sam Harper's tribe of children, and after he thought about it a while he realized that maybe the war had something to do with it; maybe Jess had joined the Army, like Milt and Gil. So he stayed, chiefly because he'd given a promise of his own, to "look after Francie" till she found herself a husband.

The war wasn't half as hard on Texas as on most of the other Confederate states, but it wasn't any picnic either. The Union blockade never extended to the Rio Grande, and incoming ships could bring all manner of foodstuffs and luxuries; Texans with coin, or with goods to trade, didn't suffer much, on account of wagons of goods up from Bagdad, the seaport for Brownsville and Matamoras. Gold wasn't hard to come by on the border, and everyone took it when they could get it; in '63 the going rate was two dollars in Southern paper for half that in bullion. And once you had the gold, if you had the right connections in San Francisco or Denver, you could convert it into Federal notes. (Even if you didn't, gold was still gold, and intrinsically valuable; probably lots of people just buried theirs somewhere in the yard or the barn against emergencies.) Big Maximilian silver dollars, coined after the French toppled the Juarez government in May of '63, also circulated freely and were used as legal tender. There was a steady market for buffalo hides and especially cotton, which was the major crop of East Texas, and traffic by mule-train over the Rio Grande, as well as that calling at the Rio-mouth, both neutral and Confederate bottoms.

Crops were good throughout the war years, though farm labor wasn't easy to find: if you were a farmer who owned a slave or two, you were probably all right, but if you didn't, it was all but impossible to rent one, as had often been done in earlier years; many had been impressed to work on the shore batteries, in the shipyards or on the docks, and those still at home were more needed than ever, since so many of the white men and boys had headed East to fight. Though coffee and sugar were freighted in from Mexico, salt became scarce; it could still be boiled out from local licks and springs, but they couldn't supply enough to satisfy the needs of the entire state. Boys as young as nine learned to shoot so they'd be able to protect their families and provide food. People tended to concentrate in or around the towns and cities and did little travelling, the conflict having taken so many men. What made the biggest difference was the chronically shorthanded condition on the ranches. Between this and the Indian trouble—though the Rangers and the Home Guard did their valiant best to cope with that—most outfits didn't even brand calves; they just hung on, holding back the redskins, trying to keep themselves together till better times, especially after the Mississippi was closed and the Confederacy could no longer buy Texas cattle. On the other hand, although a widespread drought prostrated the entire state that year and the next, the herds continued to increase—by a good 25% each year. Shipping was greatly curtailed, butchering reduced to what people needed for themselves; Indians made off with several hundred thousand head of both horses and cattle; Mexico bought Texas beef until it got overstocked and found that stealing was easier anyway; hide skinners slaughtered thousands and left the meat to rot, but even that market eventually slacked off, and the bulls were still ardent and the cows willing.

Galveston, captured by Union forces the previous October, was retaken by the Confederates; 7500 Yankees were beaten and disgraced at Sabine Pass that September by forty-seven Texans under a kid named Dowling; a huge Yankee force with three-to-one numerical superiority was turned away from the Texas border at the Battle of Mansfield in April of '64. Around this time a Union general named Banks made some clumsy operations along the lower valley of the Red River, but accomplished little except to outfit a lot of enterprising Confederates (and outlaws) with Union supplies and clothes. Not till the last months of the war did the blockade and Union control of the Mississippi effectively end business in Texas, and Yankee patrols begin covering East Texas close to the Louisiana line. But several weeks after Lee's surrender, news of which reached the state in April, Generals Kirby Smith and Jo Shelby were still leading small bands of gray-clad soldiers in Texas, and there was strong talk of continuing the war from the Southwest.

The men began coming back, those who still could; by early autumn most of them had rejoined their families, Gil among them. He knew his was in Galveston, because letters from them had reached him before the fall of Vicksburg in July of '63 closed the Mississippi and cut Texas off from the rest of the Confederacy. He was only nineteen, two years younger than Francie, but a nineteen-year-old in Texas was considered a man, especially after he'd just spent four years at war for his country and his state. He gradually made it very clear that he wanted Francie to agree to marry him—not right away, but eventually, in two or three years, maybe. Francie for her part didn't exactly love him; in fact she'd been semi-engaged to Milt since Christmastime of 1860. But she felt some sense of obligation to him because his parents had taken her and Johnny in after the raid, treated them like members of the family.

Johnny, on the other hand, didn't like Gil and never had; he couldn't, or wouldn't, say exactly why, but as he watched the older youth cozying up to his sister at every available chance, he became more and more resentful and angry. Exactly what eventually happened nobody except Johnny could ever say for sure. After Jess had left, he had earned money trapping and bought himself a gun—a ten-shot 1859 Model New Haven Navy—and a belt and holster for it, and for five years he'd been practicing with it every minute he could snatch from other things, preparing himself for the day Jess would come for him and they'd go after Bannister together. Gil had only been an infantryman, and while many Southern foot soldiers carried belt guns as well as muskets, he didn't have anything like Johnny's skill and speed, perhaps partly because he hadn't had Johnny's motivation to develop them. It came to a head, finally, about a month before Christmas. Gunfire exploded, and Gil was found dead, with Johnny standing over him. There had been no witnesses, although Gil had been armed and his hand was on his gun.

The Reconstruction government, like the law in the trail towns in years to come, gave little attention to quarrels between Texans, at least white Texans (acts by whites against blacks being, of course, another kettle of beans entirely); they probably figured that the more of each other the Rebs killed off, the easier their jobs would be. No questions were raised about Gil's death—officially; but there were more than a few of the friends Gil had made since his return (for he could be very charming when he wanted to be, as Francie herself had cause to know) who began making their own doubts plain. At last, partly on that account and partly because Jess still hadn't come—maybe, for all anyone knew, he was dead—Johnny took off, vanished between midnight and dawn, taking with him the horse he'd bought with the money he'd earned helping Sam on the docks the last two years of the war. He left Francie a note: _Jes aint cum for me, so I rekon I got to see to banister my own self. Send you munny soon as I got sum._ He wasn't quite eighteen. He hadn't come back, and he didn't write.

Money he sent, though. The first bank draft showed up in the mail, made out to Frances Angelica Harper, early the following summer. Two hundred dollars, and with Johnny's illegible scrawl of a signature on it. The postmark was somewhere in New Mexico. There had been others since, various amounts, from various places, usually in the low three figures, at irregular intervals. No letters, no explanation, but Francie hadn't needed any. She remembered the promise Johnny had made to Jess. Maybe Jess hadn't kept his end of it—and why she couldn't imagine, since by then she knew he was alive, selling his gun—but to Johnny that didn't negate _his_ obligation, least of all to their sister.

The Bradys had never said anything to suggest they held any resentment over her brother killing their oldest remaining son, but over that first post-war winter she found herself more and more uncomfortable in their midst. She began to think about moving elsewhere, but the Bradys beat her to it: they decided to relocate to New Mexico, which wasn't plagued by Reconstructionists. They pulled out in February, before the border country could get unbearably hot. Francie stayed. Work was hard to find in most of Texas in those days, everybody being more or less broke, but Galveston was one of the biggest communities in the state—its population had nearly doubled, to almost 14,000, between 1860 and 1870—and an important port besides, which meant there were plenty of Reconstruction officials and carpetbaggers in town; the employment picture there, thanks to their plentiful money, was probably better than in many other places, and no Texan patriot would balk at relieving a Yankee of his spending cash. She got a job as a combination waitress, clerk, and pastrycook at a café, twenty dollars a month and found, and spent the next four years there, until the diphtheria came. She probably would have died if it hadn't been for Ben; he'd been heading for the Border when the epidemic trapped him in the city, and he assumed the task of nursing her. They grew close, and when he told her that he was wanted, she said, "You are. By me." The law caught up with him two days after they were married.

"What makes you think of Johnny?" Ben asked now.

"I still get letters from Harriet," Francie explained. "She's married now, to a fellow named Warren Emery; they live in Denver, he's an agent with the Wells-Fargo office there. Seems like they had a string of stage robberies up that way, all last spring and summer and into the early fall. There were only two robbers, as far as anyone's sure of, but in that country, with the mountains and all the cover, it's not hard for two men to find a good place to stop a stage. One of them would stay up in the rocks with a rifle, so the people on the coach didn't try to make a fight of it, and the other one came down for the box. He never bothered the passengers or the mail, just the express, which is insured; that's why the robberies are such a big thing in Fargo's eyes, 'cause they guarantee delivery a hundred per cent, and have to make good when it disappears into some road-agent's saddlebags. He wore a duster and a hood, so the best description anybody had of him was that he was about two or three inches under six feet and talked with a Panhandle accent." She paused a moment. "The last three bank drafts Johnny sent me came out of Denver. One was five hundred dollars—the biggest yet."

"What are you thinkin', that Johnny's this stagecoach robber?" Ben asked. "That's a mighty long shot in the dark, Francie. Lots of men talk with Panhandle accents, and I reckon quite a few of 'em are a little under six foot high."

"I know that," she agreed, "but how many do you reckon have five hundred dollars they can send to their only sister? And there's another thing. The robberies stopped just about the end of October—I guess around the time things would be slowing down around there, with a mountain winter on the way; that big draft came through not long after. There was another last month, four hundred forty dollars, it was. Postmarked Cheyenne. I found a Cheyenne newspaper in Mrs. Kirchner's parlor just after; our newest boarder brought it with him from there. There'd been another stage robbery about fifteen miles out, the week before the bank draft was dated. One man in a duster and a hood, one man up in the rocks with a rifle. They got away with over two thousand dollars. It wasn't the first time they'd hit in those parts, either; the piece mentioned that." She hesitated. "I've been savin' that money—as much as I could, anyhow; when I had to stop workin', the last four months before the baby came, it was most of what kept me alive and all of what paid for the doctor, and after she died I used some of it for her funeral and the headstone; I reckoned, her bein' his niece, he'd want it so. The rest, I was hopin' to use it to help us get a start somewhere, once you were free. But now I'm startin' to wonder if it's clean money. Johnny's not even twenty-six, Ben, not till next month. Where's he gettin' it?"

"He might be doin' the same thing Jess and I were doin'," Ben observed. "From what you told me about him, I reckon he was good enough with a gun to make a good living at it."

"Still," said Francie, "knowin' that those two robbers moved up to Cheyenne from Denver, knowin' that I've gotten drafts from both places…" Her voice trailed off. "Ben, I haven't even heard of any doings of Jess's the last couple of years. I'm wonderin' if he's even still alive. If he's not… Johnny's all I've got left, him and Sophie out in Arizona; I don't know whatever became of Ben and Jake, it's over twenty years since they struck out on their own. And even if he is… if Johnny really is robbin' stagecoaches… I want to find him, Ben. I want to try to persuade him to stop. Ma and Pa were always so proud of Pa bein' one of the… the decent Harpers, the ones who are more honest or ambitious than most. I can't let Johnny slide back into the ways of the rest of 'em. Bein' his older sister, I owe Ma and Pa that much."

He greeted this with thoughtful silence. She let him ponder over it, not pushing. "How would you get to Cheyenne?" he asked presently. "I know the Goodnight-Loving Trail swings close by it after leavin' Pueblo, but that's a long way from here, and a cattle trail's not a good place for a woman, even with a husband along. Even if we could find one that would let you go along, and carried our gear along in a buckboard, it'd take us a couple of months, best estimate."

"I've been askin' around," she said. "There's a stagecoach goes from here to Baton Rouge; about five and a half days, because you have to overnight in towns. It's ten cents a mile—that'd be around sixty-seven dollars for the two of us, plus rooms—meals would be on the ticket. From there we could take a river steamer up to St. Louis; that's two cents a mile per person, 'cause the boat has to burn more wood to fight the current goin' upstream. A little less than twenty-five dollars for a double stateroom, all meals included; it'd take maybe six days on one of the new low-pressure boats, or three and a half on a high-pressure one, though they're not as safe. Then we could change to a Missouri River steamer and go on to Omaha, about another twelve dollars more. And at Omaha we could get on the cars and they'll take us through to Cheyenne, $37.60 each, plus meals. Barrin' accidents, and if we could make good connections, we could do the trip in just over two weeks."

He looked at her with equal portions of amusement and surprise. "You really have been thinkin' about this, ain't you?"

"He's my family, Ben. Yours too."

"Well, I reckon that's so," he agreed. "Funny thing—two Harper brothers-in-law, likely in the same business as me, and I've never met either one. Wouldn't mind the chance. And I've done time—I wouldn't wish it on either of them."

"You'll go with me?"

"Didn't you figure I would?" he asked mildly.

"I hoped. Maybe I don't know you as well as I should, yet. Maybe on this trip we could mend that, a little."

"We can try," he said. "And if Johnny is this stage robber, you'll need me along to go into the kinds of places where we're likeliest to find out anything we can use." He was silent for a moment or two, considering everything she'd said. "You seem to've got the hows and wherefores of it pretty well figured. We'll be gone a spell; might be best if we don't plan on comin' back any time soon. We can go back to Mrs. Kirchner's tomorrow, and you can start packin', and I'll make arrangements to get hold of some of the money I've got put away. And first thing we'll do is stop at the stage office on the way, and find out when we can get passage east."

"Oh, Ben," she said, and put her arms around him. "I love you so much."

"Not as much as I love you," he told her, and after that things got involved.

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch & Relay Station, Wyoming Territory, ****Thursday, July 9 (****three weeks later):**

Matt Sherman frowned at his watch. "Not like Mose to be this late, not in such fine weather." He snapped the lid down and replaced the timepiece in his pocket.

"Could be the coach broke down." His grown son Slim glanced across the yard to the corral, where the fresh team waited for the noon inbound, with their partner Jess Harper and Slim's sixteen-year-old brother Andy close at hand, ready to untie them and lead them over as soon as Matt and Slim got the used horses unhooked. In four years the quartet had developed a rhythm that altered only if one or more of them was away from home, while Mary Sherman, Daisy Cooper, and Jonesy, in the kitchen, took care of refreshments for the driver and passengers, and foster-son Mike Williams, recently turned nine, made himself useful wherever he could, mostly fetching and carrying or serving as a messenger between yard and house.

"Could be," Matt grudged, "but it ain't only thirteen miles to the next station, and Mose would know we'd be expectin' him, so he'd most likely take one of the team and come down here for help. He's had plenty of time to do that, even on a bareback team horse."

"How late is he, Uncle Matt?" Mike asked.

"Close on half an hour, Mike. Maybe you best go tell Jonesy and your Aunt Mary to put everything in the warmin' oven, though come to think on it I reckon they already figured that out."

"I don't need to," said Mike brightly. "Listen. I can hear the stage now."

Slim's head tilted. "He's right, Pa. I can too." He knew that his father had lost a little of his upper-register hearing in recent years, though his eyesight could still match that of most hawks.

"Hey!" Jess hollered from over by the corral at just that moment. "She's comin' in!" _Gunfighter hearing strikes again, _Slim thought with amusement.

A familiar dark angular shape lurched into view over the crest of the tall ridge that reared above the little headquarters valley to the east, running down off the higher mountain in a long wind-blocking spur. No one was surprised at the speed with which it descended the switchback trail, though passengers were often terrified by it, especially if they weren't used to Western coaching: drivers always left and entered towns and stations at full pelt—it was expected. But then Jess, who had the quickest eyes of any of them, came to full alert. "Matt! Slim! That team's runnin' away!"

"Pa!" Andy shouted. "Pa, I think Mose is hurt! Look at the way he sprawls across the box! He's not holding onto the lines, they're wrapped."

All of them, even Mike by now, had experience enough to know that a good driver—and Mose Shell was one of the best on the line—always wrapped his lines when he halted, even before he set the brake; in the case of a holdup, where he never did that, this ensured that if he were shot, or the team stampeded, a man boarding the coach from a running horse, or otherwise making an intercept, would easily be able to get hold of them. "Andy!" Jess snapped. "Get Mike up on the porch, _pronto!_ Slim—you get left, I'll take right."

The older boy lunged across the yard, scooped up his foster-brother on the run, and dashed for the shelter of the house as the swaying coach came roaring down into the last hundred feet before the yard. Slim and Jess both pushed off, full out, to meet it, each one bounding a few heart-bursting paces alongside the terrified, white-eyed leaders before making a single desperate leap-and-grab and catching hold of the bit of the horse on his side, dragging on it, digging boot-heels into the packed earth, bodies slung backward to give their weight full play against the animals' momentum. "Whoa, boys! Whoa!" Jess shouted.

"Easy, now, easy! Steady down, boys!" Slim added.

The stage slowed, slewing left and right, wheels raising a cloud of fine dust. Chickens fled in terror, along with Andy's pet goats, Mike's fawn, Jonesy's burro, and every dog in the yard. For a moment Matt wasn't sure his "boys" would be able to hold their grip—and if they didn't one or both was almost certain to be trampled—or stop the horses before they could careen into something solid. But Slim and Jess had had four years together through any number of trials and adventures, and they knew what they were doing. The team's noses weren't more than six feet from the porch steps when they finally stopped, blowing like grampuses, snorting and slinging their heads; Jess's lighter, leaner body swayed like a reed in the wind as he hung onto the right leader's bridle. Mike, tightly wrapped in Andy's arms, watched with saucer eyes.

Matt was moving, catching hold of the grab bar on the side of the box, stepping up on the barely-stilled wheel and going up the vehicle's side with a swiftness and ease that belied his nearly seventy years. The box, a good six feet above the surface of the road, had a rail at each side, and Mose was sprawled across the seat, one hand clamped in a death's grip around this rail to keep from tumbling off, the other arm—his left—hanging limp from the shoulder, blood staining the full length of his sleeve. The right coach door popped open, and a man wearing a gray mixture three-piece sack suit stuck his head out, then scrambled down to terra firma as Jess let go of the horse's bit, leaving the taller, heavier Slim to keep the animals in hand. "Pass his feet down, Matt, and I'll get him," he called up.

The kitchen door banged open. "What in tarnation are you all playin' at?!" shouted Jonesy indignantly. "Scared Mary near into conniptions—" Then he got past the bulk of the ranchhouse's main block and saw Matt and Jess cautiously maneuvering Mose to earth. "What happened?" he demanded, but in a quieter voice.

"He's been shot," Matt explained with a grunt. "You got him, son? Slim, you better come over and help while I get down off here… we'll have to put him in the main bedroom, I reckon."

"I'll get my satchel," said Jonesy, and disappeared.

Slim snorted softly in amusement as he slipped in alongside Jess and reached up to get his arms under Mose's shoulders_. Just as well,_ he thought, _that Daisy found out she's got an old school friend __living __up by Casper._ The two women had arranged to spend a couple of days in Laramie and let the friend break her journey to Fort Collins, where her daughter was expecting a baby, Laramie being about two-thirds of the way along her route; they'd actually met here, when the coach brought the other woman through on her way south, and Daisy had simply climbed aboard and started talking. It was good, Slim reflected, for his mother to have another woman around to help her with the household tasks (particularly the endless mending required by four working males and an active young boy, and the preserving that became so vital in summer and fall) and take her side against a houseful of men—not that any of them would have dreamed of disrespecting either of the two—but still, there was bound to be occasional friction between two females each of whom had spent her adult life as boss of her own household, and the best way to relieve the tension was for one of them to go off for a few days every so often, not a difficult thing to do when anyone who lived here got free passage on the stage. Apart from that, there was always a certain mild rivalry between Daisy and Jonesy when it came to caring for the sick and injured, Daisy having learned a great deal of practical medicine while serving as a volunteer nurse during the war; mostly it was a matter of who reached the patient first. On the other hand, Jonesy was well aware that Mose had, as Slim put it, a tendency to "come a little unhitched" when Daisy was around, and Slim found it surprising that he would so readily volunteer to take on the task of tending his rival's wound. But then, Mose wasn't family, and Daisy—even if she'd been here—was a lady. Caring for the men of her own household was one thing, but a stage driver, even one who passed through the place regularly, was another. Daisy had left two or three days ago and would probably be back tomorrow or the next day; by that time Mose should be well on his way to recovery, tough old bird that he was.

"We'll see to the horses," Andy offered. "Come on, Mike, you help me."

"I'll be out and give you a hand, boys, just as soon as we get Mose to bed," Matt told him. Then he noticed the passenger for the first time. "You hurt, Mister?"

"No, I'm fine. Where are we?" asked the other.

"Sherman Ranch and Relay Station. I'm Matt Sherman, and these two here are my son Slim and our partner Jess Harper. What happened, can you tell us?"

"We got held up," the man explained. "About… I don't know, maybe four or five miles back. Two men—one down in the trail with a shotgun and a six-shooter, and one up in the rocks covering for him with a rifle."

The three men traded glances. "Them again," said Jess.

"What does this make it?" Slim asked. "Three times the last couple of months? Four?"

"Four sounds about right," Jess agreed. "But wasn't it just about ten days back they hit this section of the route? Just below Rock River, it was. Charlie was drivin' that day."

Slim hefted Mose's uncooperative weight as Matt reached the ground and took over for him. "Greatest military mistake in the world," he said out of his service as a second lieutenant in the Union forces, "is to assume that just because a thing's been done once it won't be done the same way right away again. That's the best way to attain the element of surprise."

"Take your word for it, pard," Jess replied. "You got your grip, Matt? Let's go."

None of them noticed the startled look that washed briefly over the passenger's face as Jess began to speak—and intensified when the Texan, for the first time, turned so that his face was visible to him. After a moment, the man followed quickly in the wake of the procession while Mike and Andy began unhooking the exhausted team.

**SR**

Leaving Jonesy to see to Mose's wound, with Mary Sherman as his nursing corps, the three men retired to the kitchen, where they found the passenger pouring coffee from the big pot on the stove. "I'm assuming this is for public use," he said. "Anyone want some?"

"Not just now, thanks all the same," said Matt. "Go ahead and have as much as you like, and there should be somethin' in the warmin' oven worth investigatin'. Listen, you boys, somebody's gonna have to take the coach on into town and tell Mr. Reece—" the manager of the line's local office— "what happened. Mort too, for that matter, and since he's probably gonna want to take a posse out, maybe it should be you, Jess; you're the better tracker."

The Texan nodded. "I was kinda figurin' on it, Matt. How 'bout somebody get Trav ready and we can tie him on behind." On the firm wagon trails of the West, assuming level ground and except during rainy weather, a coach could thunder along at eight to ten miles an hour, sixty to eighty a day, allowing time for meal stops and team changes—a pace that just equaled a nice strong trot for a saddle horse tethered to the boot, and on a short run, such as the twelve miles between the ranch and Laramie, wouldn't tire it out unduly. "He'll have some time to rest in town, Mort'll need a report on this—that'll be up to you, Mister," he added to the listening stranger, "you bein' the only one that was there to see it. I'll get my gear together."

"Sounds like good thinkin'," Matt agreed. "All right, I'll go help the boys with the teams. Slim, your ma's gonna be busy a spell helpin' Jonesy, and we don't want to hold things up too bad; you pack some grub and ammunition for Jess."

"Sure thing, Pa."

Jess headed for the bunkroom that served as sleeping quarters for himself, Slim, and the two younger boys, as well as Jonesy, who'd had to move in with them when Daisy decided to stay on, there being no place to put her except the little back bed-room. Matt settled his hat and disappeared out the door. The passenger, who had followed Matt's suggestion and found some cheese rolls and an apricot pie in the warming oven, sat at the table with his refreshments and watched as Slim moved economically around the small familiar kitchen, assembling flour, coffee, salt, bacon, rice, dried beans, cornmeal, sugar, soda, potatoes, onions, pepper, molasses, ham, butter crackers, rolled oats, dried pears and apricots, cheese, raisins, zante currants, jerky for his friend's use; slightly under thirty pounds all told, a week's rations by the emigrant-train reckoning he customarily used. He added a can of fat frankfurters, one of pink salmon, one of tomatoes, corned beef, pork and beans, sliced peaches, two or three Golden Sweet apples, a half-pint of strawberry preserves in a tin-top jelly tumbler wrapped in bandages, another one full of small, crisp dill pickles against the scurvy, and a brown-paper bag of cookies from yesterday's baking—sugar, oatmeal, and crisp, brown, sweet molasses, all Jess's favorites—as his mother or Daisy would have done. The posse might well be out for as much as a week: after four stickups in six weeks, it was clear this pair was settling in—they wouldn't be hitting for the county line or the Colorado border. Of course, Mort could buy supplies for himself and his posse at any inhabited place he came to, paying for them with one of the county warrants he always carried, but the Sherman household took some pride in always contributing its share in the beginning, at least, assuming it had enough warning of the necessity.

"Been running this place long?" the passenger inquired casually.

"We settled here in '58," Slim replied, "though we didn't get the stage contract till about seven years ago."

"All of you?" asked the other mildly. "That partner of yours sounded Texan to me, but you don't."

"Jess?" Slim grinned. "No, at the beginning it was just Ma and Pa, me and my brother, and Jonesy. Mike and Daisy came a little over a year ago, which is a story in itself, and as for Jess, he's been with us now better than four years. And you're right, he's Texan—Panhandle, and proud of it." He gave the passenger a quick once-over. He was slighter-built than Jess, not so tall or so deep-chested, but equally as wiry; he had sallow skin, ash-blond hair, and keen pale-gray eyes. He was dressed like a townsman—suit, wine-red tie held with a horsy stickpin, blue-striped shirt with a turned-down paper collar, goldstone cufflinks, a two-dollar solid silver guard chain across his vest with a bear's-claw pendant on it—but he didn't move like one, and his outfit was finished off with a dark gray Western hat and black boots whose thin soles and two-inch undercut heels showed under his pants legs. He might have been twenty-five, but Slim doubted it. _Rancher's son, maybe,_ he thought, _on business for his pa. Funny he's not __packing__, though. Pa and I always do when we have to go to Denver._

The other nodded thoughtfully. "I won't ask what brought him so far from home; I know that's not manners. Your father mentioned someone named Mort—would that be your law in these parts?"

"Mort Corey, sheriff," Slim agreed. "His office is in Laramie. Jess and I have served as deputies for him any number of times."

"County law. Yes, I can see where he'll want to hear about the holdup. I'm Hank Holloway, by the way."

"Slim Sherman, but you knew that." They shook hands briefly. "You might want to figure on staying over in town. By the time Jess gets you in and you meet with Mort, it'll be too late to get another coach south—the last one through here is around five, and it overnights in Laramie."

Holloway nodded. "Thanks for the heads-up."

Slim gathered some tape and catgut, a pot of Jonesy's purple cone-plant paste, a jar of peroxide salve; he was all too keenly aware of Jess's positive genius for injury. He thrust the supplies into a flour sack, then encased it in a heavier burlap one, both tied shut with leather whang lacing. He was getting ammunition—two boxes of .44-40 for Jess's carbine, a hundred rounds—out of the corner cupboard in the sitting room when his friend came out, saddlebags and bedroll on his arm. He set them down on a chair, plucked his gunbelt off its peg and buckled it into place around his hips, settling it at just the right height and angle; pulled on his short canvas jacket, accepted the shells and unbuckled one bag long enough to tuck them inside, then scooped his baggage up again and slung the bag over his shoulder. "Watch your back," Slim warned him. "Remember I won't be around to do it."

Jess gave him a look full of quiet warmth. "Thanks, pard. Be back when I can. You ready in there?" he called to Holloway in the kitchen.

"Any time you are, Mr. Harper."

Matt and the boys had the fresh team hooked in place and ready to go, and Jess's starfaced light-bay gelding Traveller, tethered on behind by a line around his neck. Holloway clambered aboard, and Jess tossed his gear into the boot under the driver's seat. "You tell 'em at the office," Matt said, "that we might just as well keep Mose here till he's ready to go back to drivin'; that wound didn't look too bad to me, more like maybe the bullet went clear through, but still, he's no spring colt, and joltin' into town in the back of a buckboard wouldn't help him any."

"I'll tell 'em," Jess promised, and climbed up onto the box. Andy passed his Winchester up to him, and Mike stood alongside his foster-brother, looking a little worried; he knew the two men had a way of getting into trouble with regularity, and after losing his parents to violence, the prospect of any further such bereavements always made him uneasy.

Jess sorted the reins, leaders' between his first and second fingers, wheelers' between second and third, loose ends of near reins thrown over the back of his left hand, off lines hanging loose. He got his right foot settled on the broad top end of the brake, for on a stage you drove almost as much with that as with the reins: using it by even a fraction of an inch slackened the reins slightly, and the horses, feeling that play before the lines were "climbed," or taken in, were alerted to their tightening and ready for whatever the driver was going to ask of them. _"Hiyaaa!"_ he hollered. "Red! Rowdy! Git on there!"

The coach lurched into motion; Traveller trotted willingly in its wake. Matt and the two boys watched as it dusted out of the yard and began climbing the low divide that intervened between the ranch headquarters and Stone Creek.

**SR**

"All right, Mr. Holloway," said Mort Corey, "take your time and tell me everything you can."

"There's really not a lot to tell, Sheriff," the younger man replied. "I'm not familiar enough with this country to tell you exactly where we were stopped, but I'd guess we must have been about an hour out of the last relay station. I heard a shotgun go off, and the driver pulled up fast. When I looked out the window, there was a man standing in the trail, a little to the right of center, looking from where I was—the same side as the driver. He was holding the shotgun in his left hand and a six-shooter in his right. He looked my way and gestured with the shotgun, told me to get out. I did, and he asked if there was anyone else inside. I said there wasn't, which was the truth, and he said to stand easy and I wouldn't get hurt. Then he told the driver to throw down the box and not try anything foolish, because there was a man up in the rocks covering him. I looked, and there was; I could see his rifle and part of his hat."

Mort traded glances with Jess, who was leaning against the wall behind the door, and they both nodded. "Yes," the lawman agreed, "that pair's been causing the line headaches and indigestion these six weeks. This would be the fourth holdup they've pulled."

"So I already heard at Sherman Ranch," said Holloway. "Anyway, I decided I'd be best off to just mind my manners and see what happened. The driver wrapped his lines, reached down into the boot, and tipped the box over the side. The road-agent blew the lock off with his sixgun and kicked the lid back; I couldn't see clearly from my angle, but it looked as if there were two or three dozen small buckskin bags inside."

"That'd be about right," said Jess. In the pocket alongside the seat he had found the express manifest, which showed that the box had been carrying "37 lb. 9 oz." of gold dust and nuggets, valued at just under $7250, out of South Pass City. The gold there seemed to be petering out, but there was still enough of it to be worth people's trouble. The shipment would have gone from the camp down the Sweetwater River to Sweetwater Station, from there to a point about eighteen miles north of Alcova, and thence through Medicine Bow and Rock River and on south toward Laramie, whence it would be transshipped to the mint down at Denver. For two men, that much was a nice haul, and if they'd split it equally between them, each would have had less than twenty pounds to carry. Gold dust was a popular target for holdup artists; it couldn't be traced, so all you had to do was take it to a bank and claim you'd panned it out yourself, and no one could prove any different; you didn't have to give a fence his bite, so you got the full worth of your takings.

"Go on," Mort urged.

"I'm not quite sure what happened next," Holloway admitted. "The holdup man was still looking over his loot when I heard a shot from up in the rocks—I don't know, maybe the driver made some move that looked suspicious from that angle. I heard him cry out, and the horses suddenly lunged forward. I guessed they were bolting, and I didn't want to be left behind to face those two myself, so I jumped and grabbed the door—it was still hanging open—and swung myself aboard. I saw the man with the shotgun throw himself back, and heard him fire as he moved, but I don't know if he hit anything."

"He did, Mort," Jess supplied. "They took a look over at the office. Two shots. One took a chip out of the doorframe on the off side—that'd be the door Holloway went on by—and th'other one hit the back end above the boot and was still there when we got in." The front and rear ends of a stage were solid oak, and unlikely to be pierced by the light powder load of most common handguns. Since the door hinges were on the forward side, if Holloway had been standing within a foot or two of the hanging steps, there was no reason he couldn't have managed to get himself aboard as he'd described.

"And after that," Mort guessed, addressing Holloway, "you were too occupied with the fact that you were aboard a runaway stagecoach to think very much about anything else."

"That's right," the other agreed. "I didn't hear any more shots, and obviously they didn't follow—well, there was really no reason for it, they had what they wanted."

Corey doodled idly on a piece of paper lying before him on the desk. "Can you give me anything in the way of description?"

"Not a lot. The one man I saw clearly was wearing a long white cotton duster, which covered him down to the shins, and a flour-sack hood with holes cut through for his eyes. They were dark, I think, but I'm not completely sure what color. I'd put him at five-nine or ten, and he moved like a young man—springy, you know, pushing his weight off his toes. His boots, what I could see of them, were black, and he had brass spurs, very highly polished. One thing I did notice was his pants. They weren't the standard straight-legged kind. They were tan, flaring at the bottom over a triangle of red velvet, with embroidery at the seams."

"That settles it, as if we needed anything else to confirm who we're dealing with," Mort observed. "You're not the first witness to mention those Mexican trousers."

"_Calzoneras_, is what they're called in Spanish," Jess mentioned idly; having spent the first fifteen years of his life on a ranch where ninety per cent of the permanent crew was Mexican, he had naturally become familiar with many of the terms of their language. He couldn't speak it, except a few basic phrases—somehow he'd never mastered its rules of grammar—but he could follow it when others did. "This feller must be from the Border country, or maybe around Santa Fe."

"There's two other things," Holloway mentioned. "The man who was up in the rocks I never really saw—but I did get a glimpse of his hat. It looked to be fawn-colored, and the crown was definitely peaked—like a _sombrero."_

"A Mexican, you think?" Mort asked his younger friend.

"Could be. If he's wearin' even some Mexican gear, ain't no reason he couldn't have a Mexican sidekick. Mexicans mostly ain't so good with handguns as us, but a lot of 'em's better'n fair shots with a rifle." Still, Jess frowned a moment. Holloway had said the horses had bolted after a shot was fired by the man in the rocks, which meant he was the one who had wounded Mose. Of course, Mexicans didn't always operate by Anglo rules: they were one of the two major exceptions to the general reluctance of any Westerner to molest a woman. Still, almost no robber ever shot a stage driver, except by accident—it was almost as bad as killing a woman or child. A guard, with his twenty-inch, ten- or twelve-gauge double-barrelled shotgun, usually at least one handgun (sometimes two), and maybe a rifle, was fair game; after all, his function was to protect what the robber wanted to take, and on many lines he was paid more than the driver for precisely that reason. But in the minds of most Westerners a "whip" was something special, and outlaws made it a practice to leave them alone.

_We catch up with them two, maybe I'll ask him why he done that_, Jess thought darkly. Mose had been one of the first friends he'd made in these parts, outside the Sherman Ranch family that had become his own. You just didn't go around shooting friends of Jess Harper's, as Roy Wade, to take one example, had learned to his cost.

"You said two things," Mort remembered.

"That's right." Holloway's eyes shuttled toward Jess a moment. "He talked rather the way Mr. Harper does."

"What, a Panhandle accent?" the sheriff guessed. "That's nothing new, other people have mentioned it. In any case, Jess is hardly the first man out of the Panhandle, and he's not likely to be the last."

"Not just that, if it _was_ that," was the reply. "There was something about the _quality_ of the voice—the pitch and timbre of it, the general sound. Of course, I could be wrong; I don't doubt the hood filtered it to some extent."

Jess frowned, not angrily, more in unease and puzzlement. Mort, seeing that he didn't seem inclined to challenge the assertion, decided it was time to close the interview. "All right. It's only been, what, three or four hours since the holdup—we've got a chance of finding some sign if we get moving now. Jess, you know all the best men in town for this kind of job—I want you to go around and round 'em up. I'll have to run down at least one of the County Commissioners and tell him I'll be gone a while—and find somebody who can pin on a deputy's badge and keep a lid on the place till we get back… Slim wouldn't—?"

"Not likely," said Jess. "He'll have to help Matt and Andy with the stages and the range work."

Corey sighed. "I thought so, but I had to ask. Get eight or ten men if you can; with you and me that'll give us a heavy advantage in numbers, and if we have to split our forces to attack from two sides we'll have enough to do it."

"Okay," Jess agreed, pushing off the wall. "Gi'me… say an hour and a half. I'll have 'em meet here." He nodded to Holloway and went out.

"I realize you're probably on business of your own, Mr. Holloway," Mort said as he stood up and reached for his gunbelt, "but I'd be obliged if you could see your way clear to staying around, at least till we get back; apart from Mose you're the only witness we'll have."

"I understand, Sheriff," said the younger man. "I already booked a room at the hotel while Mr. Harper and the stage-line people were examining the coach. Good luck."

It didn't occur to Mort to reflect that he hadn't promised he _would_ stay around.

**SR**

_They had split up after the last job, agreeing to stay apart from one another for a month or so and meet in Cheyenne. When they got there, it took almost a week for them to realize Ren didn't seem to be coming. And then they found out that he was dead._

_Careful inquiry gradually assembled a picture of the circumstances, and a good description of the man who'd done the deed. All the witnesses agreed that it had been a fair fight, but to them that didn't matter. This was about blood. The Hardisons and their kin might not be uplanders, but they came of the same Scotch-Irish ancestry, and their forebears had brought the tradition of feud with them from across the sea. Moreover, when the latter first crossed the Appalachian chain to settle the Kentucky and Tennessee wilderness, __courts were feeble unto puerility, and every man was a law unto himself. Many hard characters came in with the pioneers—bad neighbors, arrogant, thievish, bold. Society not being organized for mutual protection, it was inevitable that cousin should look to cousin for help in time of trouble. From this arose the attitude of "My family right or wrong" which so moved the mountaineer—and many of his lowland counterparts. A brother or cousin might have committed a crime that shocked him as much as it did all other decent citizens, but he would never think of giving the miscreant up or testifying against him. He would hide him out in the laurel, carry him food, keep him posted, __perjure himself in court, help the guilty man to break jail__—anything, everything, to get him clear. And for many years, in many localities, the law remained a feeble, dilatory thing that offered practically no protection to those who would obey its letter; so it was good to have blood-kin who were faithful unto death. Each clan had, in times of feud, a leader, a man of prominence on account of wealth, shrewdness, political influence, or physical prowess. His orders were obeyed, while hostilities lasted, with the same unquestioning loyalty that the old Scottish retainer showed to his chieftain._

_This attitude travelled with them across the Big River into Missouri. The days when Kentucky—the home soil of many Missourians—had been called "the dark and bloody ground" __weren't __far behind them. Most people could remember tales the old folks told about the first little groups of settlers who'd forced their way into the Kentucky forests between the warring Indian tribes. No military force from anyplace, nor any form of law, had helped those early settlers. Very often one man alone, imposing justice as he saw it, was all the law there was. Kentuckians had been slow to delegate the enforcement of their personal rights to officials likely to be indifferent, incompetent, and far away. A similar want of law was to be found in Missouri in the '50's, just as several of the Hardison boys were growing up, and quite naturally they absorbed it with the air they breathed and the food they ate. If a man or his kin were injured in any way, no doubt entered his head, then or ever, but what he was totally obligated to bring the malefactor to justice, personally and by hand._

_They knew the name Ren's killer went by, and any of them would have recognized him in a moment had they seen him, but there was no clear consensus as to his whereabouts, except that he was no longer in Cheyenne. Some people seemed to think he'd gone to Denver; others had heard he'd shown some interest in the gold diggings around South Pass City; others again believed he might be somewhere in the Laramie Basin, just over the mountains. Hank, as the leader of the group, had decided it made best sense to split up again, each of them following a different lead. There were six of them now. Denver was a big place, so Luke would take two of the others and go there; Jack and Boone would investigate the Basin, and Hank would go alone by stagecoach to South Pass City._

_That lead turned out not to be worth anything, although he'd seen a Wanted poster there:_

The Overland Stage Company  
and Wells-Fargo Express  
will pay the sum of  
$1000  
for the arrest and conviction  
of either or both of the bandits, who,  
since the sixth day of June, 1874,  
have on three separate occasions  
stopped and looted Overland stagecoaches  
between Medicine Bow and the Colorado line.

One of these men is described as five feet nine or ten in height, with dark eyes, and speaking with a Texas Panhandle accent. He is believed to be young, probably not yet thirty. He wears black boots, polished brass spurs, and Mexican belled trousers. His depredations are carried out in duster and hood, and no further details regarding his appearance can be provided.

_The description, scanty though it was, struck Hank as being similar, in several major points, to that of the man he so ardently desired to find. Still, he would never have believed in a hundred years that he'd have such tremendous good fortune as to be on a stage the man decided to hold up._

_Of course, the Amarillo Kid himself wouldn't have recognized Hank if Hank had bitten him. Which gave Hank an advantage. At first he had expected that, once the box had been thrown down to him, the Kid would take time to rifle the only passenger's pockets; that being done, he could send the coach on its way, passenger and all, and take his time with the more important loot left at his feet. But the Kid seemed to have no interest in any such program. His attention was all for the box. It came to Hank that even if this fellow turned out not to be the man Hank thought he was, a thousand-dollar reward __wasn't__ to be sneezed at. Cautiously, he slid his hand down to the Colt .31-30 Pony Express pistol hidden in a leather-lined back pocket, drew the weapon out, squeezed the trigger as he eared the hammer back, to prevent a telltale click. The man up in the rocks seemed to be more interested in the driver than in the lone passenger, perhaps because of Hank's citified dress. And then—_

_And then the driver yelled, "Behind you, boy, look out!"_

_Hank ducked and dropped as the Kid whirled to face him; the movement raised his sights, and his shot went high. The driver grunted in pain and fell back across the seat. The backup man in the rocks squeezed off a shot, but a dropping target is the hardest of all to hit. The team, already excited by their driver's cry and further upset by the bellowing report of the rifle, lunged into their collars. Hank scrambled up, trading shots with the Kid—neither of them scored—and jumped for the open coach door as the vehicle began to roll. The Kid threw himself back away from the moving stage, firing as he did; there was a nasty crunching sound as he took a chip out of the doorframe, then a hard thump as a second round struck the back of the coach. Hank, lying on the floor of the passenger compartment, got off another two shots out the still-open door, but the coach was jouncing so badly that it was more out of reflex than any hope of actually scoring a hit. And then they were rounding the next bend in the road, and there was no pursuit..._

**SR**

**Cheyenne, that same day:**

The Marbury & Malloy Bank might not be the biggest in Cheyenne, but it was sound and well-respected. As its name suggested, it was one of the hundreds of privately owned and insured banks that still speckled the country, often founded by men who had started out as storekeepers, attorneys, or almost anything in between, gradually gaining wealth through speculation, shrewd investment, or some combination. It had, not a single president, but two co-equal vice-presidents, each with his own ten-by-fifteen-foot office at the rear, partitioned off with walnut wainscoting and frosted glass. Inside each of these were a leather-covered swivel chair, massive flat desk, handsome carpet, a little safe, a table for directors' meetings, and half a dozen leather-covered chairs which could at need be moved to face the desk and provide seating for visitors.

Malloy had been out to dinner when the McKittricks arrived, so it was to Mr. Marbury's office that the guard had shown them. He was in his middle forties, of average height and just a little stouter and sleeker than most men might be; he wore the kind of conservative and serviceable garb that was almost a trademark of bank workers—a blue serge suit with a tail coat, a banker's black four-in-hand tie, snow-white shirt with standing collar, good jewelry but not too much of it: a large pearl stickpin, cameoed silver cuff buttons, a Dickens watch chain looped across his vest. "To be honest," he said, "I'm not quite sure what I can do for you. A bank's depositors expect as a matter of course that they can depend upon its discretion. Even if I recognized the description you've given me—and, you understand, I'm not saying I do—one of my responsibilities is not to tell outsiders how much money any depositor has, how he gets it, or what he does with it, even if I know."

"We can understand that," said Ben carefully, "but this is kind of a special case. The man we're askin' about is my wife's kid brother—maybe the last brother she's got left alive. And we don't think he's exactly a depositor here—which would mean he wouldn't be covered under the limits you've just mentioned."

Marbury looked puzzled. "But if he's not a depositor, why do you think I can be any help to you?"

"Because back in May he bought a draft here. My wife's got a letter from her banker to confirm that she got it and deposited the money in her account. Show him, Francie."

Francie reached into the green plaid bag that rested on her lap. She was wearing a green cassimere dress with full round sleeves and a touch of white lace at the throat, and a wide-brimmed hat; Ben had donned a well-tailored box-back coat for the occasion, though otherwise he was dressed like the range man he'd been for much of his life, in a shirt of fine dark-blue flannel with the collar left open, an embroidered buckskin vest and dark corduroy breeches.

Marbury accepted the letter as she handed it across, glanced at the letterhead and read it through carefully. It specified the date and number of the draft in question, the name of the issuing bank, the amount for which it had been made out, and the full name of the recipient. "We've asked around," Francie explained, "and nobody claims to remember my brother by his right name. I don't reckon you could read what he signed to the draft—_I _couldn't have, if I didn't know there was nobody else that would have been sendin' me money."

The banker put the letter down on his desktop and studied her with something that was part interest and part compassion. "You say this came from your brother?"

"My youngest livin' brother, that's right. Johnny, we called him. He's been mailin' me bank drafts these eight years and more, but never from the same bank more than four or five times in a row." She leaned forward a little, her hand sliding into Ben's. "It's been just us two ever since our pa was killed by the Bannister gang, fourteen years ago now. And—and I think Johnny's in trouble. I need to find him, Mr. Marbury, and this town is the last place I know for certain he was."

"Bannister?" Marbury repeated. "I've heard of them. In fact, the boss of the gang, Frank, was killed just the other side of the mountains about four years ago. I was out of town at the time and didn't get all the details, but I understood that he'd gotten involved in a range dispute they were having over there, and was shot by a ranchhand when he attempted to kill the family the man was working for." He seemed to ponder for a moment. "If your husband is right, if your brother doesn't have an account here—and he wouldn't have to, if all he wanted was to buy a draft with cash or gold that he brought with him—then technically I don't have any obligations of confidentiality toward him. Let me have someone find out." He went to the door and called a name. After a moment the cashier—the second-ranking officer of the institution—appeared on the threshold. Marbury handed him the letter. "Solomon, please look through your records and see if you can connect this to any of our accounts. If you can't, I'll need your copy of the paperwork on it, as soon as you can provide it."

The man murmured understanding and departed. Marbury went back to his desk. "Even if we can help you with this," he observed, "it's far from being an arrow to your brother's current whereabouts. You haven't received any further drafts made out on this bank?"

"No, sir. This was the last—back in May, it was. Goin' on two months, I've heard nothin' from him since. We've been on our way here from Texas, Ben and me, for three weeks, but if he'd been goin' to send anythin' more from your bank—or any other in Cheyenne—it seems like I should have got it before we left."

Marbury nodded thoughtfully. "I'd be inclined to think so. If, as you say, it took you three weeks to get here, it certainly shouldn't have taken a piece of mail any longer than that to get from here to Texas."

"Thing is," said Ben, "we can give a description of him—or at least of what he looked like at the end of '65—but there could be a lot of men who'd more or less match it, and in all that time a man can change; Johnny was only seventeen then. If we can find out what name he's goin' by—that could help a lot."

"Yes, I can see how it might. We may have a bit of a wait—we do a lot of business with cattlemen here, many from outside the Territory; what can you tell me about the present state of the cattle business in Texas, Mr. McKittrick?"

About fifteen minutes later there was a knock on the door. Marbury went to answer it, there was a quick low-voiced exchange between him and the cashier, and then he came back. "Here it is," he said. "Your guess was right. He's not a depositor. Solomon remembers him, now that he's had his memory jogged by finding the paperwork; he matches the description you gave me, allowing, of course, for seven or eight years' interval. Apparently he doesn't read or write very well; Solomon had to make out all the blanks for him." He handed the paper to Francie.

"'John Jordan,'" she read, and her face lit. "Ben, it _is _Johnny! That's his whole name, just like mine is Frances Angelica, or Sophie's is Sophia Virginia."

"Maybe he decided to drop his last name just in case Bannister knew who he'd burned that day," Ben mused. "Maybe he figured it'd make his hunt easier if Bannister didn't find out just who was on his track. Do you reckon he could'a' been the ranchhand who killed Bannister?"

"I don't know," Francie confessed. "The drafts from here were the first time I'd ever gotten anything from Wyoming. But maybe, if it was, he didn't stay once Bannister was dead, not long enough to get any money worth sendin' me. Ranchhands don't get paid much."

"No more than fifty a month for a top hand, in this part of the country," Marbury agreed. "Green hands, about thirty, and a foreman one-twenty-five, maximum."

"So we know," said Ben. "He's goin' by John Jordan, and it's just barely possible he was in the Laramie Basin in—what would it have been, Mr. Marbury? You said four years...?"

"Early summer of '70," the banker agreed. "My suggestion would be that you go over to Laramie and call on Sheriff Mort Corey; he was there at the time. If you'd like to stop on your way out and talk to Solomon, get a better description, feel free to."

Ben stood, smiling, and shook hands. "We're greatly obliged to you, Mr. Marbury. You've been a lot of help, maybe more'n you know. Come on, Francie, we need to talk to that cashier."

**SR**

**On the Laramie-South Pass Road, ****later ****that afternoon:**

"This is it," said Jess. "We're just about eight, nine miles from the next relay up the line, and see here? You can see where horses' hooves dug hard into the surface of the road, like they would if a team bolted, and there's deep wheel tracks cut in, like a heavy coach would make." He didn't bother to mention the shattered express box lying just to the left of the center of the road. Some robbers would make away with it for later opening, but most preferred to break into it on the spot, thus saving themselves its weight—and he knew from Holloway's testimony that the road-agent had shot the lock off.

Mort nodded, then looked around, studying the terrain. They'd picked a good spot. Stagecoaches were a soft touch for robbers anyway—their routes took them through desolate territory far from the protection of the law, usually with only the driver and shotgun guard for defense—but the smartest ones liked to waylay them at the top of a grade, where the horses would be winded and the driver might well stop to rest them for a few minutes. Having done so, he'd have no hope of escaping: the drag of the coach's weight would prevent him from getting up speed enough for a quick getaway. This particular stretch of road was sandy, liable to wash out whenever it rained and crosscut with ruts and ditches that made for slow, difficult going. Perhaps best of all, at this point it passed through a stretch of low hills—the tallest no more than thirty feet high, but rugged and rocky—separated from one another by draws and shallow canyons where horses could be hidden. The sheriff slanted his gaze upward as he tried to decide where the rifleman might have been concealed. "Joe, Chuck," he said, "get up into those boulders and see if you can find where the shot was fired from. Call if you do."

The two possemen dismounted and began tentatively working their way up the hill that shouldered closest to the side of the road on what would have been the right side of a southbound vehicle. Not having to ask—most of them had been on posses before—the other men got down, dropping their reins to make their horses stand, and eased their cinches before they began walking up and down the shoulder, lighting cigarettes and stretching their legs. They carefully kept clear of the middle of the road, where Jess was casting about, trying to pick up a track that might belong to the robber.

After about ten minutes there was a hail from up the slope, and everyone looked up that way to see Joe's well-worn Confederate Cavalry campaign hat waving violently above a line of rocks. "Jess! Sheriff! Up here, I think we found it!"

Helping each other over the roughest spots, Jess and Corey made their way up the steep pitch to join the other two. They found a kind of little setback in the slope, with a wall or palisade of rocks forming a breastwork—a natural sniper's pocket. Joe and Chuck stood back and let Jess work. "Yeah, he was here. And we guessed right, it looks like he's Mexican. Here's a cigarette butt he threw away after he'd smoked it out. It ain't paper, like our American ones—it's cornshuck." He continued quartering about the space until a flash of light on metal caught his eye as he reached just the right angle, and he pounced. "Brass from a shell casin'," he said, and brought it up to his eye to examine the extractor markings and manufacturer's stamp on it. Mort saw the frown settle on his lean face, the dark look that meant trouble.

"What's up?" the sheriff asked.

"Somethin' don't smell right, Mort," the Texan explained, and passed his find over. "When Holloway told us it was the coverin' man that shot Mose, I reckoned the feller'd drawn his sixgun, though I couldn't rightly figure why. But, here, look. This here's out of a Spencer, a .56. All them big Spencers could just as well be buffalo guns. If Mose'd been shot with one, it'd like as not blowed him clean off the box, or took his arm plumb off, maybe. I saw the wound—it was two little holes, back and front, like maybe a .38 or less'd make."

Mort studied the casing somberly. Being some years older than Jess, he was even more familiar with older guns than his young deputy, and he knew Jess had called it. A Sharps .56, especially, lacked only wheels to be a cannon; it had a bore like one, and when you touched it off it bellowed like a mad bull in a box canyon. It also threw soft-nosed slugs, and what they did to a man wasn't pretty. "What are you saying, Jess, that Holloway lied about what happened here?"

"_If _his name was Holloway, which I doubt, I reckon so," Jess agreed.

"Why would he do that?" Mort wondered. "He knows Mose is still alive and could give us the real story."

Jess shrugged. "Could be plenty of reasons. Maybe he wasn't figurin' on stayin' in these parts long enough for us to get back and catch him in his lie. Maybe he counted on us not findin' this here, or the feller pickin' up his brass after—some do, they like to reload their shells, like I do. Maybe..." He trailed off, and Corey watched his face. After thirty-odd years of wearing a badge, he'd learned to read faces, as a lawman must if he hopes to survive; and what was more he knew Jess pretty well by now, though perhaps not quite as well as he did Matt or Slim. There were subtleties in all of Jess's impassive masks, and this particular look was grimmer than most. The sheriff knew he had to be thinking of Mose, who could give the lie to Holloway's story—Mose, who was bedbound and convalescing at the ranch that had become Jess's home—and of the people looking after him, the people who had taken Jess in and made him theirs.

"We're not more than four or five miles from your place," the lawman noted. "This sign is still pretty fresh, and I'd like to keep on it for as long as we can see, but we can spare one man to ride back and give Matt and the others some warning."

"You reckon?" A hint of relief showed in expression and voice alike. After four years, no one knew better than Jess did what Matt and Slim Sherman were capable of in fight, assuming they knew to be on the alert.

"Willie, I think," Corey decided. "He's the lightest. Let's get down out of here and I'll write a note for him to take."

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch, ****about six P.M.****:**

"Matt," said Mary Sherman, "Mose is awake."

"'Bout time he quit malingerin', the old fraud," her husband observed half-humorously. "Never knew a man to stay dead to the world for half a day just on the strength of two little holes in his arm."

His wife gave him a reproachful look. "You know better than that."

She was right, of course. It wasn't till Jonesy got a chance to examine the wounded driver that they'd realized just why he'd been unconscious: when he'd been shot, the kinetic force of the bullet had thrown him back and he'd hit his head on the break of the coach body behind his seat. He'd lost some blood, to be sure, and at his age that certainly hadn't helped him, but it was chiefly the force of the blow that had kept him out since then.

"Reckon I do," Matt agreed, sobering as he thought about the note Willie Stroud had brought from Mort Corey. "Think he can answer a few questions? Might be best if I get his version of what happened." He didn't say why this idea appealed to him, but Mary could guess; even after a wounded man regained consciousness, fever and infection could still take him off, as they nearly had Jess after he'd saved Matt and Slim from ambush four years ago.

"He's demanding food, so I guess he'll do his best to stay awake long enough to eat it," Mary replied. "I'll get something together while you talk to him."

Mose was propped up in the very attractive and ornamental brass bed that the Shermans had bought more than twenty years ago and brought with them across the plains from Illinois when they came to settle in the Laramie Basin. There was a dressing bound rakishly around his head and another on his arm; he was still a bit pale, but he seemed alert and in tolerable spirits. "Matt," he said as his old friend entered the room. "Much obliged to you for takin' me in. Mary says Jess took the stage on into town?"

"He did, and he reported the holdup to the line and Mort Corey too. He's out right now with a posse, tryin' to get a line on the fellers that stopped you. Mort sent a note back—said they found some sign that got Jess thinkin' it wasn't one of them that shot you; not the one up in the rocks, at least. Feel up to tellin' me about it?"

The driver sobered. "It weren't either of 'em," he said. "I was settin' quiet up on the box, waitin' till that road-agent decided to tell me I could go on, not makin' him any trouble, and out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement back alongside the coach, where my passenger was standin'—the feller'd had him get out before he ordered me to throw down the box. I looked, and the passenger'd drawed out a gun from somewhere—not a big one, looked like one of them old Pony Express models—and was drawin' a bead on the road-agent's back. I hollered, and—well, I ain't entirely sure what happened after that, but I don't reckon it was the road-agent that shot me, 'cause he spun around to see what was goin' on behind him."

Matt listened attentively. "That makes some sense," he agreed. "The bullet that hit you went clean through and out the other side, but judgin' by the size of the hole it left, Jonesy don't think it was any bigger'n a .36 or .38, maybe less."

"Wasn't the robber, then," said Mose positively. "I noticed his gun—'t'was one of them Dragoon-pattern Dance .44's that the South imported from England durin' the war."

"Maybe Holloway's shot went wild," Matt speculated. "That'd explain it—an accident." He squinted keenly at his long-time friend. "How come you to warn this road-agent anyhow, Mose? We think it was that same one who held Charlie up just last week. Overland would'a' been plumb relieved had he been fetched in one way or t'other."

"You'd done the same in my place," Mose argued. "Neither one of us is the kind to stand by and let a man get shot in the back, no matter what he's done." He hesitated. "There was another thing, too. His voice."

"What about it?" asked Matt. "We know he's likely from Texas—"

"He ain't only from Texas, or even from the Panhandle," said Mose, looking uncharacteristically somber. "The hood he had on likely muffled his voice some, but it sounded mighty like Jess's."

The rancher's eyes widened a moment, then narrowed. "You sure of that, Mose? You took a pretty sharp crack on the head—"

"Not till _after_ I heard him speak," Mose pointed out. "You understand, Matt, I ain't sayin' a word against Jess—but I know what I heard."

Matt frowned. He knew his younger partner had done a good many dubious, if not unlawful, things in the years before he came into their lives, but Mary had insisted from the beginning that Jess was basically a good, decent man, and in the Texan's time here Matt had come to feel the same. Setting aside the fact that he could himself testify to exactly where Jess had been when Mose—and for that matter Charlie—had been held up, he found it very difficult to believe that after four law-abiding years Jess would suddenly take it into his head to throw away everything he'd found here, the place he'd made for himself in Laramie and the district surrounding it. Of course, Mose was no longer young, and his hearing might not be what it used to be. But did that necessarily mean that he would be unable to distinguish the unique characteristics of Jess's voice—the intonations, the pacing, the warm gravelly drawl, the way he used his words?

_This is gonna take some lookin' into_, he thought. _If the posse can't lay hands on that feller, and it don't stop by on its way home, maybe I'll ride into Laramie and have a talk with Mort afterward._

Mose was looking around at the furnishings of the room—the Biedermeier-style wardrobe with its two-drawer base and two narrow doors with wide stiles above, below, and flanking, the three-drawer chest; he couldn't see the blanket chest at his angle, or make out much of the pattern of the bedstead, but he certainly knew or guessed that this wasn't the bunkroom or even Daisy's room. "I ain't pushin' you and Mary out of your bed, am I, Matt?"

"You are, but don't trouble yourself about it," Matt replied. "You know Daisy's in town for a day or two yet; Mary can sleep in her bed, and I'll bunk in with Jonesy and the boys."

**SR**


	2. Chapter 2

**Laramie, late that evening:**

"Had a notion I might find you here," Hank said quietly, sliding into a chair.

Jack and Boone looked up from the two-handed game of casino they'd been playing. "When'd you get in, Hank?" Jack inquired of his younger brother.

"Early this afternoon." Hank reached for the bottle that centered the table, tipped it over the shot glass he'd gotten at the bar, and sipped conservatively—unlike his brothers, he wasn't much of a drinker, which was perhaps one reason he had become the acknowledged leader of the gang. "You?"

"Two days. Been from one side of this basin to the other. No sign of him—except a wanted poster that's…"

"I know," Hank interrupted. "I saw the same one, up in South Pass. Not only that, he held up the stage I was on."

The others instantly came to full alert. "You sure?" Boone demanded.

"Not a hundred per cent," Hank admitted, "not that it was the Kid—he didn't give his name. But he matched what it says on the poster, and the poster, what little it has to offer, matches what we know about the Kid."

Around them the comparatively subdued Thursday-night activity of Dooley's saloon—generally acknowledged to be the lowest-grade of Laramie's four, a workingman's bar, a place for common cowboys, laborers, and the occasional small-time outlaw or average-tough gunman—went on without any regard for them; Dooley's girls, though noted for their brass and flash, had already discovered that Jack and Boone weren't interested in company, and wisely supposed that Hank would share their attitude. Mort Corey and the Sherman Ranch family would have recognized the newest arrival's sallow complexion, ash-blond hair and pale-gray eyes, his dark gray hat and the two-dollar solid silver guard chain across his vest, with a bear's-claw pendant on it, but otherwise he was dressed now like a cowhand—striped muslin shirt, canvas ducking pants, a yellow cotton bandanna, and the vest from his gray sack suit, with the addition of a converted war-vintage Remington .44 in a scarred tan holster. "Are we goin' after him?" Jack asked.

Hank gave him a reproachful look. "You wouldn't want to shut Luke out of the fun, would you? I already sent a telegram to Denver. They'll meet us just above Granby—that's about halfway between here and there—three days from now."

"Why ride all the way down there just to come back?" Boone asked. "If he's in these parts…"

"Because," said Hank evenly, "I want plenty of peace and quiet and privacy to work out a plan. I've got more than a notion that there's somebody living around here who has some kind of connection to him."

"Don't like waitin'," growled Jack. "Nobody shoots _my_ blood cousin in the belly and gets away with it." After a moment's thought, he added, "Or anyplace else either—neck, thigh, or shinbone." Jack wasn't the sharpest knife on the table, but _he_ didn't know that.

"Be patient," Hank advised. "We'll get him. When have I led you wrong, Jack?"

His brother pondered the question. "Never yet, I reckon."

"So," said Hank with a nod. "Just go on trusting me and we'll get him yet."

It was said in the West, by those knowledgeable about such matters, that there were two basic kinds of outlaws. Some were ex-soldiers who'd gone bad to prolong the sectional conflict of the Civil War or the border troubles that had preceded it, or because they opposed Reconstruction measures; many had become hardened to killing and couldn't stop. Others were local bushwhackers who'd used the war as an excuse for terrorism and didn't dare go home once it had ended. And then there were the true "badmen"—natural killers, moral and mental degenerates, wholly untrustworthy, inhuman brutes who would kill without warning for personal gain or merely to satisfy a whim: the kind a later generation might have called sociopaths. But not all outlaws fell into these classes—far from it, indeed. In the wild and lawless West, a lot of men not otherwise bad got into the wrong company, and after one misstep it was hard to turn back. Five out of six were just jobless cowboys gone wrong, pushed to recklessness by circumstances over which they had no control, but not criminals at heart, simply wild young riders, or sometimes young men of good family, who had drifted into lawlessness driven by the urge for excitement and adventure, plus the stimulus of drink, or out of good fellowship or carelessness, or to meet a temporary shortage of funds, and were carried away by the excitement of it. Others preferred to take the easy way out rather than make an honest living, or actually liked the danger and excitement of a life lived outside the law; most of these weren't essentially vicious, or at least didn't act that way as a rule. Most might kill while on a "job," but many, when off duty, were very human, companionable, and warm-hearted; there were few cowards among them, they revered friendship, and to them as to all frontiersmen, a man's word was his bond. They looked, not like badmen, but like ordinary cowpunchers. And, when not on business bent, they were for the most part "nice fellows," easy to get along with, not quarrelsome, and owning the typical Western good humor. People liked them. With half of them, the difference lay in having a job: if a man could get work—and frequently such men did take honest jobs at least part of the time—he generally stayed honest, but if he was out of work he started looking for easy money. They were generally "good hands"—good cowboys, good bronc twisters, able to turn to anything from bartending to dishwashing—and looked not like badmen, but like ordinary cowpunchers. All the most famous outlaws, except for the James outfit, had worked in the cattle trade at some point. Nor was it unknown for them to turn to honest speculative ventures such as prospecting or wild-horse hunting.

Nevertheless, many of the most notorious Western lawbreakers had gotten their training in the war, where they learned to plan lightning raids, elude pursuit, and assemble overwhelming firepower—and developed a contempt for law and order. In addition, many Southern men had returned from the fighting to find their homes and farms destroyed, sometimes their families dead or scattered; with little hope of rebuilding their former lives, they saw no way to make a living except by stealing, and their resentment toward their Union conquerors only fed into this. They struck their targets the same way guerrilla raiders used to hit enemy towns, with guns blazing and everybody whooping it up to throw terror into the locals. Only a few took the time and trouble to plan, to spy out the target and its surroundings, to get to know something of the capabilities of the people they might face—and those who did were almost invariably the ones who scored the biggest successes and kept on the loose the longest.

Owing to the peculiar conditions of the Border troubles, which routinely featured horse thievery, the burning of barns and houses, lynchings, and torture—even occasional burnings alive—the Border gangs were probably the most vicious. Yet the whole attitude, in the Middle Border states, then and for almost thirty years yet to come, was not to peach. Even if people knew something about outlaws—where they were, who gathered information for them—they didn't run to the law with it. This came out of the troubles in the '50's and '60's, which folks settled among themselves, sometimes wrong and sometimes right; mistakes, they figured, would inevitably be made, people being people. In any case, with a few notable exceptions—Matt Dillon of Dodge, Mort Corey, later Chris Madsen, Bud Ledebetter, Heck Thomas, Bill Tilghman—lawmen were mostly seen as cowards or grafters. It was an attitude that renewed itself at regular intervals, as new groups of boys—generally of Southern extraction, and therefore raised with both horses and guns, like the Hardisons—kept coming up, reared on tales of old feuds and wrongs and grudges, of deeds of war (guerrilla and otherwise) in which they'd been too young to take part, and later of the exploits of the Jameses and Youngers and their ilk. It was what kept the Jameses fed and sheltered, given alibis and protection, for more than fifteen years, and prevented Authority from ever getting hold of pictures of them, even though Jesse sat for a photographer at least twice.

Moreover, in many places and in the minds of many people—especially the rural ones, who still made up more than half the national population—it was always open season on railroads and banks. In building their great empires, the "robber barons" of the post-war era drove many "little fellows" to the wall. Banks squeezed the farmer with interest rates, then foreclosed on him when—often through no fault of his own—he couldn't pay off his loan. Railroads frightened or killed his livestock, and sometimes the sparks from their stacks set his fields on fire. And when he appealed to the courts or his elected representatives, he often found that, in a day of rampant and unchecked capitalism and in the general malaise growing out of widespread corruption—wartime and afterward—many of them were more or less beholden or even connected to the moneyed interests, and therefore did little or nothing to rein them in. The farmer knew that most of these moguls were self-made men from humble beginnings, much like his own; he wondered, increasingly, how he hadn't seen, or been able to seize, opportunity as they had. All this led to envy and resentment layered on top of the kind left over from sectional and family strife. In later years it was to result in bloody labor agitation and in Granger efforts (mostly unsuccessful) to put the brakes on the great corporations, especially the railroads; and not till the late '80's and early '90's would big business become the object of drastic and far-reaching criticism. Meanwhile an attitude grew up that the outlaws who raided it were freedom-fighters, Robin Hoods of a kind, even if the farmer himself never benefited directly from their activities. This gave rise to "half-outlaw" societies in which, if the long riders didn't bother you, you didn't bother them. As long as no "real people" were harmed, the farmer looked the other way.

Hank and his brothers were the sons, or rather some of the sons, of one Lloyd Hardison, born in 1806, who claimed he came out of a good Kentucky planter family, and settled in Maysville, Missouri, east of St. Joe, after service in the Black Hawk War in '32. In fact there were good Hardisons all over Hart County, if you called plowing and starving and going to church being a good person—and then there were those who weren't so good; but none were planters. Even before the war wiped out the family fortune around 1864, his financial position was always bad. He fathered sixteen children all told—eleven boys and five girls, born mostly at regular two-year intervals; Aden, the youngest of the boys, died at the age of ten, March, the third-oldest, at seven, second-youngest daughter Louise at birth, and Adele, the youngest of the girls, who was also the lastborn, at six, but the rest of them lived to grow up—but could never make a decent dollar. He tried his hand at farming, and for a while saloonkeeping. His kids were raggedy, had to take charity and work at anything they could get for a handout or a penny. The general opinion was that he was never any good, though his wife was, and plenty of their kids turned out good too; the fifth of the boys, aptly named Justus, became a lawman, deputying for a cousin, four years older, who'd been elected sheriff. Most of the time their father hung around Maysville trying to trade horses. He wasn't a thief, just poor white trash, and finally, when that became known, right around the end of the war, his wife's family turned him out. He was about twenty years older than she was, he owed everybody in town, and he took to liquor and died alone and miserable, sixty-three years old. Mrs. Hardison salvaged what she could and moved to Fort Smith, Arkansas, to be near her kinfolk, specifically a half-brother, whose son was Justus's boss; at that time Hank was thirteen.

Even when a family lived in town, as the Hardisons did, many youngsters were taught at home for years by their mothers (or resident maiden aunts) because of frail health, unavailability of regular schools, or parental disapproval of teacher or pupils; the more conservative Protestants, like the Reformed Presbyterians, were especially likely to resort to this method in an effort to keep their progeny "unspotted from the world." And sometimes one child of a family (every large one seemed to have its "runt") was considered not robust enough for daily attendance, and was taught at home while his sibs went out; often such children were the only ones in the household to go on to higher education, perhaps because their teaching was more individualized and their subjects more real to them than was possible under the common rote system. Such a one was Hank, the next-to-youngest surviving of the Hardison boys; his mother had hoped that he might become a lawyer, or even a preacher. He did neither, but he profited from the learning. As he grew into his teens, his health improved, and by the time his father died, when he was seventeen, he was strong enough to start working as a cowboy; southwest Missouri, the Sedalia region, and central Arkansas south of the river of that name were all important cattle-raising areas, and he didn't have to go far from home to find a job.

His two oldest sisters, Felicity and Rowena, had made good marriages and were raising families now; Delia, the youngest surviving girl, was seventeen and still home, but had two or three promising suitors. The oldest boys, Roger and Reuel, had moved to California; Malcolm, who came between Reuel and Luke, was helping their mother run the farm, along with fifteen-year-old Fane. Justus, the fifth of the boys and the fourth to survive to adulthood, enjoyed a character that was beyond reproach, and had he lived, his sobering influence might have saved his younger brothers from ever becoming bent; but after only three years' service he was killed by a horse thief, in 1868, at the age of twenty-eight. After that, the rest were popularly supposed to have entered into cozy relationships with the criminal element.

Luke was the oldest, and the meanest, of the three who went bad. Nineteen when the war broke out, he signed up with a local Confederate unit and killed his first man soon afterward. Seven years later, in '68, soon after Justus's death, while serving as a lawman in neighboring Crawford County, he was sparking a cousin of his who transferred her affections to another man. After stewing over this betrayal for six months, he waylaid his rival and shot him through the back of the head. He claimed to have caught the fellow stealing horses; none of the neighbors believed this, but for some reason the authorities accepted it, and the death went down as justifiable homicide. Perhaps emboldened by this demonstration of his own bulletproof status, Luke took to running liquor into the Indian Territory, but was soon apprehended. He jumped bail and went over to the long riders; he wasn't a lot brighter than Jack, but he'd learned enough of the way the law operated, in his time wearing a badge, to make a difference. Jack, who was eight years Luke's junior, began serving as a lawman with him when he was eighteen, was wounded in action a couple of years later, arrested for horse theft about a year after that—six months after Luke's abortive arrest—but released. As it happened, he hadn't stolen the horse, and was naturally offended at the notion that the law he served would have believed—even for a little while—that he had. He handed in his badge and joined Luke.

Hank was the youngest of the trio, but he was indisputably the leader. He was the most mature, probably the smartest, and they all respected him. If he said to "shut up" or "cool down," they did it. Like many outlaw leaders, he had a powerful personality and an engaging way about him. He, like the other two, had ridden on posses in his late teens, but after Justus died also resigned. Three years ago, when he was eighteen and his brothers came home for a visit, he broached the idea of starting a gang of their own. When he began outlining some plans that had come to him, they decided it was a great idea. They began operations on a small scale, close around Fort Smith, with some modest mail robberies and horse thievery, but quickly made the country too hot for their liking, so they moved on.

About six months later, four masked men took over the depot at a small town south of Kansas City, flagged down the Columbia Express, and shot the fireman dead when he resisted. Although nobody could swear to the identity of the miscreants—who got only about $600, mostly in mail, for their trouble—Hank was arrested in Joplin, tried, and sentenced to twenty years, but he escaped and rejoined his brothers. They made it over the state line into Kansas and began recruiting extra guns—blood relations, kissing kin, and neighbors, as was generally true of the holdup gangs of the day—until their number totaled seven.

They moved up to Iowa and stopped the Des Moines Limited on the Chicago, Rock Island & Pacific east of Council Bluffs, using the same tactic as before, but this time they were more successful, and got away with $14,000, not having to kill anyone. They next successfully flagged down a third train, this one on the Hannibal & St. Joe, and escaped with $19,000. Emboldened, they decided to strike at the Union Pacific next. A Fremont Express yielded only $2000, but the Hardisons, nothing daunted, held up the one out of North Platte about six weeks afterward, killed one man, wounded three, and realized $17,000 for their trouble. During that same month they were said to have robbed a bank at Grand Island, Nebraska, of around $10,000. Most recently they had moved well west and hit the U.P. again, east of Cheyenne, and not long after this Ren Haythorn, who was the Hardisons' second cousin once removed, was shot dead in a gunfight there. Meanwhile the fourth of the original band—Bruce, who came between Luke and Felicity—had gotten into a hot poker game, won substantially, "retired" from the business and gone into local politics. He was twenty-eight now, and he might not be the world's best politician, but he was making money in land, and he spent it in the right places. He'd make sure none of his kin ever went to trial again, not in Missouri, at least.

They'd been in the business now just under two years and a half, and except for Hank's brief flirtation with prison, they'd been pretty successful. The two older boys were thirty-one and twenty-three; Hank was twenty-one. There were no pictures of them, in part because the family had never been able to afford photographs—nothing but descriptions that could easily fit any number of men. There were rewards out, but all on suspicion, except for the one that had been posted on Hank for his escape—and since he hadn't been indicted by the Grand Jury, it wasn't dead-or-alive. In the absence of any centralized national law enforcement, once an outlaw or a gang got out of the specific area (usually a county) where a bank or express-office robbery was committed, there was a good chance they could elude the inevitable posse, and as local officers could only make arrests within their own jurisdictions and there was little co-operation between those in different states or Territories, they had little to fear unless someone connected them to a standing reward and decided to try to collect it—not an easy task. And apart from the tendency of their directors to hire detective agencies or company investigators, who weren't restricted by jurisdictional boundaries and had no voters to answer to, railroads and stage lines were potentially even better targets: many carried thousands of dollars in cash, and wealthy passengers could also be robbed, but best of all the outlaws could choose the best place along the line to strike, then make a quick escape before local law could reach the scene, often getting out of the latter's reach almost before it knew what had happened. Stages, being slower and having smaller crews, were perhaps the safest targets of all, something the Amarillo Kid (if it was him) had apparently figured out; the Hardisons hadn't ventured into that line yet, though Hank was beginning to consider it, in part because the railroads still didn't serve but a couple of narrow east-west corridors, leaving vast stretches of country in between that had nothing else.

"When do we leave?" asked Boone.

"First thing tomorrow," Hank replied. "I've got an idea the sheriff is likely to want to have a talk with me once he gets back from chasing the Kid, and I don't think I want to be here."

"But what if he gets him?" Jack wanted to know.

"If he does—and that's not certain; by what I hear the Kid's already pulled three other jobs and they haven't nailed him yet—they'll have to keep him in jail till they can hold a trial. In a jail he'll be in one place and easy to find; we can figure out a way to kill him, or break him out. Why not let the law do part of our work for us, if it can? And if it doesn't, well, we'll see what happens." He drained off the last of his whiskey. "I bought a horse this afternoon. I'll meet you at the stable at seven."

**SR**

**Cheyenne, about the same time:**

"What are we goin' to do now?" Francie asked, sitting before the mirror in their hotel room and slowly brushing out her cinnamon-brown hair.

"We don't know for sure that Johnny's that holdup artist you read about," Ben pointed out. "But it's about the best lead we've got. And if he is, he doesn't seem to be operatin' on this side of the mountains any more, but we know he might have been over in the Laramie Basin four years ago, long enough maybe to get some knowledge of the country. We also know there's a reward poster out for someone who's about his size and talks with a Panhandle accent, and that feller's workin' the Basin. So I reckon our best bet is to do just what Mr. Marbury suggested—cross over to Laramie, talk to this Sheriff Corey, maybe see what kind of local news we can pick up. But I'm thinkin' we'll need a lot more flexibility than stage travel can offer us. It's about fifty miles from here to Laramie; we can do it in a day by a buckboard or light wagon, and then we'll have it in case we need to move around the Basin. There's a market wagon for sale at the livery down the street." A market wagon, sometimes also or alternatively called a pleasure wagon, was similar to a buckboard, with a bed about seven feet long from end to end and a bit less than three across—the chief difference between the two was that the market wagon had an integral seat rather than the spring kind of a buckboard; either could reel off sixty miles in a day if it had a good road. "They want seventy dollars for it, but I reckon I can bargain 'em down. Two-horse team'll go ten or twenty dollars apiece, span of short-tug harness no more'n thirty. We'll get breakfast early, and then you can pack our things and I'll see to the wagon."

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch, ****next day:**

The first outbound stage carried no passengers, just four heavily-armed guards plus the shotgun messenger on top. "What's goin' on, Frank?" Matt asked the driver as he clambered down to stretch his legs and get a cup of Jonesy's good coffee. "Haven't seen so many guns in one place since I guided that Army detachment to Fort Laramie during the war."

Frank knew that was an exaggeration, but he saw no reason not to answer honestly. "When Jess told us about the holdup yesterday, Mr. Reece got to worryin' about that currency transfer that's slated to go out to Medicine Bow this week. He thought if them two were operatin' this close to Laramie, they might've heard about it and be thinkin' to make a try."

"So he's rolled out the heavy artillery?" Matt guessed.

"Sort of. He's hopin' that seein' all these guards, they'll think the odds aren't good, and back off. But we haven't got the money on board today. It'll be goin' through tomorrow, with just maybe one shotgun guard. Mr. Reece figures maybe that way he can slip it by under their noses."

Matt nodded thoughtfully. "Might work, might not, but it ain't bad thinkin'," he said.

"Oh," Frank added, "talkin' of tomorrow reminds me. I saw Miss Daisy at the hotel when I went to get supper last night. She said that friend of hers is takin' the southbound out later on today. Miss Daisy's gonna stay in Laramie one more night, says she's got some shoppin' she wants to do, and then she'll come home tomorrow."

Matt grinned. "Jonesy'll be glad to see her back again," he said, well aware—after forty years of friendship—of the other man's sentiments. "Well, we all will."

**SR**

**Twenty-eight miles up the road, eleven past the Morton Pass feeder trail, three hours later:**

They lay in the shelter of the brush by the roadside, watching as the stage thundered by, the men inside riding with heads rolling a little but not loosely enough to be popped by a sudden lurch—veterans: riding a coach with your neck stiff was a good way to get it snapped. When the vehicle's rumble and jingle had faded into silence, Leonardo looked across at his partner's still, unreadable face. "I don't say this was a bad plan, Juanito," he said, "but why did we not stop them? It's true there are six, counting the driver, but even that many have little defense against a rifle high above them." It would have been difficult for him to say whether it was English or Spanish that was his first language, since each of his parents had grown up speaking one of them, but he did tend to put a Latin purl on many of his words when he elected to use the former. He was twenty-nine, three years older than the man he called Juanito (or, often, _compañero)._ He had the Indian-black hair often seen in Mexicans, but there was a definite curl in it; his skin was a light olive, his mother's brown bleached by his father's Anglo genes; his upturned nose and quick, devil-may-care smile pointed to the latter's nationality (Irish), as did his vivid blue eyes (though many Mexicans have those too).

Juanito—who thought of himself as Johnny, but never troubled himself to correct the only real friend he had—was a lean, wiry, but surprisingly deep-chested youngster, just a day short of twenty-six, all elbows and cheekbones, still with something of the gawkiness and excitability of adolescence, tempered by bitter experience, hardship, and disappointment. In his bare feet he stood five feet nine, and he weighed no more than a hundred and fifty pounds, but every ounce of it was human rawhide and piano wire. Like his partner he had blue eyes and black hair, but the latter was wavier and less glossy than Leonardo's and the former were a deeper hue, sometimes almost black. His face was lean and angular, starved-out hollows showing beneath the high carven cheekbones, jaw tapering to a stubborn square tip. His most notable feature was his mobile eyebrows, the angle of which was perhaps the most reliable barometer to his moods. When he smiled—which was seldom—there were deep laugh dimples in his cheeks.

"It's a trick, Nardo," he said now. "Can't you figure it? When'd we see that many guards on any of these Basin coaches? Think about the one we took yesterday. Better'n seven thousand in gold on it and there wasn't so much as a shotgun guard. Don't you reckon if they didn't take no better thought than that for all that gold, they wouldn't put no more'n maybe one man, maybe two, on a stage carryin' twenty, thirty thousand currency? Look," he added patiently. "They reckon they know now how we operate. We've took two of their stages in ten days, so they're thinkin' that _we're_ thinkin' that they won't be expectin' us to try again this soon. So they're figurin' we'll do just that, and they're hopin' one of two things—we'll try and they'll take us down, or we'll back off, like we're doin', and then not pay no heed to whatever coach the money's _really_ on, 'cause we'll reckon we've let it go on by and not made the try."

Leonardo gazed at his partner with admiration and awe. Johnny had never been to school and could barely read or write, but he was clever and observant, had a keen perception of human motives and thought processes, and was a natural strategist. "You think it's not on this one?"

"I know, it don't seem to make much sense," Johnny admitted. "But most fellers in our line think that if somethin's got value, the folks it belongs to'll put some kind of guard on it. So if they don't see no guard, they'll reckon it ain't worth their time. And yet the gold was, wasn't it? And _that_ wasn't guarded. I'm bettin' that money'll go through some time the next two, three days, on just a regular passenger run, without all them guns. Maybe as soon as tomorrow."

Leonardo considered this possibility. "If you're right, maybe it's just as well," he observed presently. "That _puerco_ in the gray suit yesterday came too close to making an end of you. It's better if you rest today, recover your strength and let the wound start to heal."

Johnny glanced at his left arm; he'd replaced the shirt Nardo had had to cut to get at the wound (and carefully buried it, so as not to give the law any hint that he'd been hit), so the dressing wasn't visible, but he was very definitely conscious of the shallow and rather bloody gash that had been cut into the flesh a palm's width above the elbow. Flesh wounds could hurt like the very devil, and this one was living up to the general reputation, but Johnny would sooner have died than admit it. "Lucky shot," he said with a shrug. "The way that stage was jouncin' up and down and left and right it's plumb miraculous he got within ten foot of me."

"He would have done you far worse," said Nardo, "if the driver hadn't shouted."

"I know it," Johnny agreed. "I reckon I owe him. I don't like thinkin' about that. I don't reckon there'll ever be a way I can pay him back, even if he's still alive." His features settled into one of his trademark impassive masks. It always bothered him when people behaved in anything that approached a non-selfish way; it didn't track with what he had come to believe of the human species generally. John Jordan Harper had been the youngest of his family to survive the Bannister gang's fiery raid on his home, and thus perhaps the most sensitive and deeply hurt. Grieving over the loss of his younger siblings, guilt-stricken because of the stormy relationship he'd had with his father and now would never be able to mend, and bitterly disappointed that no one—not even the Rangers, whom he had always admired before, partly out of Texas pride and partly because his Uncle Cam Cooper had been one—seemed to be able to run the Bannisters down, his whole personality had undergone a change in the months that followed. Being uprooted and taken to Brownsville, and then Galveston, when his unofficial guardians the Bradys decided to move out of Amarillo hadn't helped: a life spent almost entirely on an isolated Panhandle ranch didn't fit a boy for life in a bustling, overpopulated seaport. He'd gotten into a lot of fights both places, the first few months, but he was scrappy and tough and stronger than he looked, and usually won. This got him the kind of reputation that no one cared to challenge—and guaranteed that few people his own age would want anything to do with him, which only increased his isolation.

Naturally, he grew up with the idea that the world had a grudge against him and that every man who moved near him had a chip on his shoulder. Accordingly he had acquired his own chip, which functioned early and often. He didn't pick fights, but he took offense easily. Yet Brownsville had its more positive contributions to make as well. He'd always been a better Spanish-speaker than his older brother—his mother had said he had a gift for languages, and had guessed that if he'd lived near one of the many German and French settlements that speckled the state, he might have learned one of those just as quickly—but with the border so close, his time there improved his command of it. Later, Galveston offered him the chance to learn to use a knife. Cowboys generally didn't fear knives as weapons, but they looked down on them, saying it was "a greaser's way of fighting." Johnny was more practical, and what was more he knew that Jess had known how to knife-fight—Jack Henry had taught him, back on Wind Vane—which guaranteed that Johnny would also want to master the skill. A retired Texas Ranger turned blacksmith and knifemaker took him in hand and taught him how to hold a knife so as to prevent its being turned back on him, how to get at it if his arms were pinned, when to slash and when to stab; how to evade, how to tell the way that someone was coming at him, and how to squirm out of the way like a weasel; how to cut or stab if he could, and if not, how to punch his attacker with the hand not holding the knife. "Because he'll be concentrating on that one," the man said, "not on the one he thinks isn't dangerous. If you have a horseshoe, or a piece of wood, or a nice heavy rock in it, all the better." That suggestion suited Johnny's increasingly cynical character very well.

After he left Galveston, he made his way to New Mexico, where, he'd heard, some of the Bannisters had been seen. He didn't find them, but he did a little cow-work, learned poker by way of bunkhouse games, and then got into a game in a saloon in Mesilla that turned into a shooting. The witnesses said he was the fastest thing with a gun they'd seen in years; of course they didn't know he'd been practicing almost obsessively since he was twelve. The word got around, as such things do, and he was offered fifty dollars a month—about the minimum for a hired gunslinger—to help a mine owner who was being troubled by hijackers. Since anyone who survived that kind of job quickly increased his rep, it wasn't long before he was earning $100, then $300.

When he learned that his brother Jess was still alive, he couldn't understand why Jess had broken his promise. And that destroyed his belief in the last thing he had to count on outside of himself: family, which to him, as to Jess, had always been the one constant, certain thing in his world. Now there was nothing left for him at all, except for his own pride and honor, which was why he kept sending money to Francie in Texas: Jess might have abrogated the agreement they'd made, but Johnny didn't intend to fall down on _his_ end of the bargain. He would "take care of Francie," as he'd promised, and if he couldn't hunt the Bannisters _with_ Jess, he'd hunt them without.

Bannister-hunting proved fruitless—he didn't know at the time that the gang had moved north, into Colorado and Nebraska —and with that on top of his disappointment and bewilderment, he became very angry and bitter toward his brother. Surely, he thought, if Jess had kept his word, they'd have had a better chance of finding the man they sought. This in turn made him rather misanthropic, and over time his loneliness, grief, and resentment morphed into a skepticism toward all social institutions—organized religion, government, perhaps especially the law, which had failed to avenge his dead—and from skepticism to contempt. He rode in a cloud of suspicion, mistrust, and doubt, kept himself to himself even when he was working as part of a crew, and preferred solo jobs; even then, he wouldn't hire out to wear a badge or ride for a stage line. He deliberately avoided using his right name from the start, partly because he didn't want Bannister to know just who was looking for him, and later because he didn't want Jess seeking him out (assuming Jess decided to do that) till _he_ was good and ready. All that really kept him on the side of the law for the first several years was the possibility that he might yet have to account for himself to some badge-toter, if he could ever get within sixgun range of Bannister. To the world at large he turned the cold attitude he had adopted to protect himself from further emotional savaging. Frozen objectivity was one way to keep anguish from spilling out—maybe the only way. His rules were few and simple. Luck was all right when you had it, but it couldn't be counted on. It worked good and bad, but more often good if you knew what you were doing and were careful and watched and listened. Watch a man's eyes, not his gun. Get to the high ground and stay still. Set up simple signals and make sure everybody knows them. Carry more water than you need. Above all, keep cold. Keep emotionally uninvolved. Don't fight in anger. Let anger energize, not drive. At the same time, there was a part of him, deep inside, that never forgot what it had been like when he was a kid, and wanted only to grow up to be "just like Jess," the brother he loved and idolized. But he wouldn't let himself admit it—except, sometimes, in his sleep.

And then he was in New Mexico in the late summer of 1870, and he got the word that Bannister was dead. At first he wasn't sure he believed it: the man had been notoriously successful at his work, riding the outlaw trail since he was in his upper teens, leading a gang at twenty-five—which was perhaps why the news of his demise spread as rapidly as it did. But slowly he gathered up confirmation, though somehow or other no one he spoke to seemed to know exactly who had done the deed, and now a sense of disappointment and failure laid a heavy hand on his already warped and battered young spirit. There seemed very little to live for any more, except Francie and his obligation to her.

Westerners lived out their lives against a background that demanded all they could give and often a bit more. They tried to find acceptable patterns of behavior in a totally new environment, drawing upon their past but adjusting themselves to new situations and attitudes. The frontier required that they be self-reliant. Group-thinking and peer behavior had only a limited application. But Johnny's difficult life had taught him a self-reliance beyond that common even to most of them. A man saddled his own broncs and fought his own battles. He stood alone, on his own two feet. To Johnny a gang was a place for cowards to hide, because they were afraid to stand out in the open; they wanted others to fight their battles for them and shield them from attack.

Yet he'd been raised in a tight family environment, and he longed for closeness, for warmth, for even just one person he could trust. And it was late that year that he found one—Leonardo, whom he met in Tucson. Nardo's father, Timothy Ignatius O'Regan, had been born in Ireland in 1808, but he hadn't been part of the class of impoverished tenant-farmers who dominated the population of that country: the men of his line had been lead-miners for generations. He was also literate: in his boyhood Catholic schools were forbidden in Ireland, but wandering Catholic schoolmasters taught the youngsters at "hedge schools," hidden from view under high bushes and rocks, in the shelter of dry ditches, or in old abandoned buildings, or sometimes in the teacher's primitive mud cabin. In spite of these difficulties the level of their teaching was surprisingly high, including not only poetry and literature, but also mathematics and astronomy; the children of poor Catholic tenant farmers received excellent educations under these dedicated masters, and the Gaelic language and the myths and legends of the ancient Celtic culture were kept alive. One of these hedge schools—started in 1834, and so after Timothy's time—had fifty pupils, who paid from twenty-one to thirty-five cents per quarter for teaching in reading, writing, arithmetic, and the Catholic catechism.

On the other hand, even lead-miners were to some extent under the thumbs of the English, who owned virtually all of the Emerald Isle, and one day when he was nineteen young Timothy got into a fight with one, the foreman of the mine in which he worked. The foreman fell, hit his head, and died, and Timothy had to flee. He managed to get aboard a Norwegian ship bound for Bremerhaven, and from there made his way across France to Le Havre, where he signed on with a smuggling ship to California, then a province of recently independent Mexico. Along the California coast, as on the frontier east of Santa Fe, the Mexican government levied import taxes that ranged from capricious to intolerably high, but in California there was an easy way around them: smuggling. The coastline was far too long and rugged for the few soldiers to patrol efficiently, and small ships' boats, often rowed and steered by New Englanders who knew well how to cope with rough water, could easily slip through the surf to pick up and land cargoes. All levels of _Californio_ society took part in the avoidance of import duties—and export fees on hides and furs.

Like many another seaman, Timothy jumped ship there, and worked his way down into Old Mexico, to Sonora, a state which was the country's frontier: its Spanish-descent pioneers were largely male, often taking Indian wives—Mayo, Yaqui, Pima, Seri, Cucapá, Papago or Guarijio—even if they were themselves of purest Spanish blood. Despite its rough terrain and harsh climate, it was, like the rest of the northern Mexico, rich in mineral resources, and thus in mines, not only gold and silver but also tin, lead, copper, and coal. Secular settlement had followed closely on the heels of the establishment of the mission system in the 1610's, and after 1700 it increased with the discovery of mineral deposits. The major agricultural regions were the Yaqui Valley, the Mayo Valley, the Guaymas Valley, the coast near Hermosillo, the Caborca coast, and the San Luis Río Colorado Valley, in all of which irrigation was practical. Ranching and mining developed symbiotically, just as they did in other mining districts of northern New Spain. Mine owners needed hide sacks to haul ore out of their shafts, tallow to make candles to light their tunnels, and meat, milk, cheese, and wool to feed and clothe their miners. These things they could obtain from the ranchers, while their mines provided the largest market for the thousands of head of sheep, cattle, horses, and mules that throve on Sonoran ranges. As early as the 1660's, cattle and mules were abundant in the province, and by 1685 the ranching frontier had reached as far north as the headwaters of the Río Sonora and Río Moctezuma, with six ranches in the Bacanuchi Valley and four in the Teuricache Valley. After glutting Sonoran markets, ranchers often had to drive thousands of head across the Sierra Madre Occidental to sell in the mines of Nueva Vizcaya, where raids by Tobosos and other Indians from the Bolsón de Mapimí had decimated local herds.

As a natural result of his experiences in Ireland, Timothy gravitated to the mining industry, taking work as foreman of a copper mine near Movas, Sonora, about ninety miles east of Guaymas and 110 southeast of Hermosillo, where he quickly rose to manager, in part because he could both read and write. Apart from this, he possessed the classic Irish knack for languages (which made it easy for him to become fluent in Spanish), tenacity, imaginative daring, and quickness of intelligence, and while he also had a certain inborn resentment against power and privilege, his energy, adaptability, willingness, warmth, good nature, imagination, resourcefulness, and executive qualities balanced them. And, being socially ambitious after the Hibernian pattern, he worked hard and found it not difficult to move up in this new world he'd found, which eased a great deal of the resentment.

For all its mineral wealth, Sonora was wild country, desert and mountains, and usually in a state of semi-rebellion. That was perhaps somewhat better than the condition of the country at large, which from 1801—twenty years before it gained its independence from Spain—was wracked by war and revolution. In the quarter-century that began in 1835, it saw fifty national administrations and over 250 rebellions—an average of seven-plus per year. The state of Veracruz alone had four different governors in the year 1829. "Sides" didn't matter, and in fact had no meaning: success went to the strongest general with the strongest armies, and the armies fought for whichever _patr__ó__n_ fed them best. Sonora was notable for several successive governors, each of whom established himself as a dictator in fact but was eventually flung into exile. The power of the central government was always tenuous, and social discontent was widespread, especially after Governor Manuel Gándara was legally elected to office. From 1830 to 1858, he was the chief political force in Sonora, but he was neither popular nor capable, farming out sources of revenue to English and American contractors (much as Porfirio Diaz would do a quarter-century later) and enriching himself through heavy taxes, and like most Mexican politicians of that century, his main challenge was defending his own position against rivals. Perhaps his chief accomplishment took place in 1840-1, when he led a military campaign to put down unrest among the Papago. José de Aguilar seized the governorship in April of 1849, but went into retirement on account of a threatened revolution, and Gándara regained power for a time. He did maintain good relations with the Yaqui and Mayo tribes, and in his final struggle with General Ignacio Pesqueira, the Yaquis were almost constantly involved in military action against the latter. Gándara was killed in battle early in 1858, and Pesqueira, then thirty-seven, became dictator of the state for the next twenty years.

There was also a more or less continual state of Indian trouble. The Spanish peace establishment, which had somewhat calmed the Apache menace, collapsed after independence, and at almost the same time the Mexican government attempted for the first time to collect taxes from the Yaquis, which precipitated a rebellion in 1825. Juan Banderas emerged as the Indians' leader and made alliances with the Mayos, Pimas, and Opatas, managing to sweep the country clear of Mexican forces for a time. But they failed to pursue their advantage beyond the immediate objective, and the army managed to retrench and inflict a defeat. In 1827 Banderas made a treaty with the government and was even placed on its payroll as captain-general of the Yaqui towns, but two years later the Mexicans eliminated his office, and by 1832 he was up in arms again. The following year he was captured and shot, along with his Opata second-in-command. This did little to calm the situation, as fighting erupted again within a year, and even Gándara's death didn't halt it. In 1862 Pesqueira invaded the Yaqui-Mayo heartland and began a relentless campaign in which many Yaqui leaders were captured and shot and tribal property was ruthlessly destroyed. Only the French invasion of Guaymas in 1865 brought the tribe some relief. Meanwhile, in 1835, Don Ignacio Zúñiga, the long-time commander of the presidios of northern Sonora, asserted that since 1820 the Apaches had killed at least 5000 settlers, which convinced another 4000 to flee, forced the abandonment of over a hundred settlements, and caused the virtual depopulation of the interior frontier. That year the state government resorted to paying a bounty on Apache scalps. In his youth future Governor Pesqueira attracted the attention of the then occupant of the office by his fearlessness and skill in tracking down the Apaches, and was named by him Colonel Inspector of the National Guard on the Frontier.

The war with the United States, when it came, resulted in only one major military confrontation between Mexican and American forces in Sonora, but its consequences were severe for the state. In October of 1847, the warship USS _Cyane_ laid siege to Guaymas Bay, resulting in United States control of that part of the coast until 1848. The war ruined the state's economy, and the political vulnerability that followed made it susceptible to buccaneers such as William Walker, Gaston de Raousset-Boulbon, and Henry Alexander Crabb, who attacked Sonoran ports such as Guaymas and Caborca. The economy didn't begin to recover until the late '50's, when Pesqueira became governor and attracted foreign investment to the state, especially in the mining sector, as well as working to create markets abroad for agricultural products.

This turbulent history led naturally to an attitude of self-reliance, a large part of which was linked to the _vaquero_ tradition. Sonorans and other _norteños, _as Northern Mexicans called themselves, had a reputation for being hard-working and frugal, and being more individualistic and straightforward than other Mexicans. The mines were bound to be a target for the envious, and they, like the _ranchos_, of necessity developed into tight, independent units capable of fighting off whoever might appear. Timothy O'Regan, coming from a country that had known little but unrest and sporadic guerrilla warfare ever since the English took it over, proved particularly well suited to dealing with both hostile tribes and political strife. He could outtalk many of the threats—most Apaches, the majority of Yaquis, and of course all Mexicans could speak Spanish, and the Irish have always been deft at verbal maneuvering in whatever language—and welded his workers into a kind of paramilitary force that withstood the rest. Many of the workers were Yaqui—their traditional country stretched from the coastline between Siuti and Villa Juárez inland to the Chihuahua border—and they admired him greatly and took to calling him "Don Timoteo," or simply _el patrón. _Soon he was summoned to Hermosillo to meet his ultimate boss, the mineowner, whose ranch lay along the nearby coast.

Don Adolfo Navarone Ysmael Eresenio Nariño was a Creole—the Mexican term for a person of Spanish ancestry who had been born in Mexico—but of pure Castilian ancestry, gaunt and grave and stubborn, with gray eyes, ivory skin, and blue-black hair. He held a royal grant to a tract of land encompassing some 1,500,000 acres—nearly fifty miles a-side. Like many other Sonoran pioneers he had married a local Indian woman, a Papago. Among his large family was a daughter, Margarita Maria Catalina Nariño, ten years Timothy's junior. Sonora, and especially Hermosillo, has always been famous for its beautiful, slender, graceful women, and Margarita matched the best of them. She had the deep, vibrant voice of some Mexican women, and the gray eyes occasionally seen in people of Spanish descent. Timothy was enchanted. He was Catholic, which gave him an automatic entrée to the local society, and his natural abilities enabled him to increase the mine's output dramatically while reducing deaths and injuries among the workers; since this bettered _Se__ñ__or_ Nariño's financial position, he made no objection to the Irishman's courtship of his daughter, though distance required that much of it be by letter. Partly for that reason, Timothy didn't have much hope of winning her—until there was an explosion in the mine and his heroic efforts to cope with the disaster both left him missing his right leg and drew the approving attention of the national government, which, of course, profited from the taxes the facility generated. Although forced to leave his job, he was given a land grant—not a great one, but a _porci__ó__n_, which was basically a rectangular strip of farmland fronting at one end on a water source, and often abutting on a grazing grant further back; these generally ranged from two and a half to nearly eleven square miles. Timothy's was a bit over eight, but that was quite large enough to make a prosperous farm from which he could feed and support a family, with fields of wheat, corn, rice, and beans, orchards of olives, figs, apricots, peaches, figs, oranges, pomegranates, apples, pears, plums, cherries, and crabapples, a big garden of peas, beans, beets, lentils, onions, carrots, peppers, corn, potatoes, squash, cucumbers, melons, pumpkins, lettuce, tomatoes, cabbage, garlic, radishes, artichokes, and calabash, some grapevines, and the usual livestock—cattle, sheep, goats, pigs, chickens, ducks, turkeys, and of course burros for burden-bearing and horses for riding and harness. That made him the social equal (almost) of his former employer, who gave his blessing to Timothy's suit for Margarita's hand. They had eight children, four of each, giving each one two Mexican and two Irish, or at least Hibernicized, names.

Leonardo was the third son of the family, and as a young man he'd begun drifting, figuring he had little hope of getting very much of the O'Regan land, or for that matter the Nariño holdings either. Like all Mexicans, he was a superb horseman, and a devoted wagerer on cockfights, monte, roulette, and dice. Though much of his syntax was Spanish, he spoke quite good English—and spoke it with an accent that blended Hibernian and Hispanic, which made for a unique style indeed. At the time he and Johnny met up, he was engaged in the business of running cattle fast over long distances, mostly at night or in rainy weather. Johnny by then had a fair-sized reputation, and Leonardo saw that a man as handy with a gun as this young Texan might be of great help to him. Two men, if they worked hard and were lucky, could run off up to 350 head of cattle, which could be sold, no questions asked, to an Indian reservation for five to ten dollars each—a total of $1750 to $3500, even half of which was better money than Johnny had been making by selling his gun. But rustling was considered a heinous crime by the large-scale ranchers (the smaller operators often not being averse to making off with a cow or ten belonging to a pushy or unpopular neighbor)—worse than stealing money—because the potential increase of the cattle was stolen too, and even with a "cow" jury it was almost impossible to convict a cattle thief, so many cattlemen simply hung any they found. After a couple of near escapes Johnny suggested they change their line of work. That was when they went into road-agentry. It was Johnny who worked out their method, including the use of a duster and hood to hide his identity. Because it proved so successful, their relationship underwent a subtle change, and Johnny became the leader of the partnership.

Many people would have considered Johnny a thief, but he observed certain humane rules with respect to those he relieved of their portable goods. When he was rustling, he stole only from bigger cattlemen who could stand the loss, and having gone into stagecoaches, he restricted himself to insured express boxes; he never touched the mail, because that got the U.S. Marshals after you, and he never looted the passengers; he hadn't killed anyone while "on the job" since he and Nardo had gotten together. His family's death had made him hate people who trampled over innocents in quest of what they wanted, and the really bestial breed of outlaw made his skin crawl; he'd exterminated more than one—like Ren Hayworth in Cheyenne—with grim pleasure.

Despite this, his difficult life had soured him on humanity generally; he was gallant enough toward women, like Eva Rose, but he tried hard not to let himself get attached to anyone, except Nardo. People brought nothing but hurt. Hurt was when you got your feelings involved. Hurt was what inevitably happened when you let yourself believe anyone wanted anything but their own agenda. Even family couldn't be counted on; look at the way Jess had forgotten their agreement. Johnny just didn't want to hurt or be hurt by anyone, didn't want to believe anybody. Once you did that, he had decided, you just walked helplessly, stupidly, into what people did for fun or profit.

Nardo's voice broke in on his bitter musings. "Are you sure you'll be ready so soon?"

"You mean this?" asked Johnny, with a glance at his arm. "It ain't my right."

"You hold the shotgun in it," his partner pointed out.

"But I only let that off to stop 'em," said Johnny. "Ain't nobody made me fire the second barrel yet, nor won't neither so long as I got you coverin'." He rose to his feet. "I'm thinkin' if they do take the money through tomorrow, they ain't like to be so much on their guard the first leg out of Laramie; there's a lot of farms and ranches along that stretch of road, or not far off it. Let's go ride it and see if we can spot a good place to set our ambush."

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch, later that afternoon:**

"Uncle Matt!" Mike hollered, dropping the water bucket he'd been about to carry to Mary's rosebushes and turning to scurry across the yard to the lean-to at the side of the barn. "Uncle Matt, there's a wagon comin' down the hill!"

Matt looked up from the portable forge, wiped his hot forehead with a large green cotton bandanna, and shaded his eyes with his hand as he moved out from under the roof to get clear of the barn's obstructing bulk. "Why, so there is," he agreed. "Now what's got you in such a pother about that, Mike? You been livin' here long enough to know we get quite a few folks passin' through besides the stages—neighbors, travellers."

The boy ducked his head. "I reckon… I reckon I'm thinkin' it might be somebody bringin' Jess home hurt," he explained reluctantly.

"Not likely," said Matt. "There's two folks on the seat, and one's a woman. No reason for a woman to come along just to deliver a man home."

"You reckon?" Mike's voice rose hopefully.

"I reckon we'll see soon enough," said Matt, reaching for his shirt and pulling it quickly on over his undershirt out of consideration for the imminent presence of a female from outside his own household.

The wagon—it was, Matt noted, the light kind known alternately as a market or pleasure wagon, drawn by a pair of mostly lightblood horses, about 1100 pounds each, one bay, one sorrel—slowed as the driver caught sight of the rancher and pulled up. "Howdy," he said, in a voice that sounded to Matt partly like Missouri and partly like Texas. "Is this Sherman Ranch? We passed a signboard back there a ways…"

"It is," Matt agreed, "and I'm Matt Sherman; it's my place, mine and my boys'. Ma'am," he added to the woman who sat beside the speaker. She was, he thought, about thirty, her cinnamon-brown hair brushed back in two loose graceful wings ending in a soft roll at her nape. She wore a green jersey travelling dress whose color brought out the red highlights of her hair and the hints of green in her hazel eyes, and over it a black lace _mantilla—_too light to be uncomfortable in this warm midsummer weather, but sufficient to give the final touch of respectability to her outfit. Her wide-brimmed hat had a veil against the road dust, which she'd tossed back over the crown as the wagon came to a halt, and there was a coral cameo—more expensive than the commoner shell, as Matt knew from pricing such trinkets for his wife—pinned at her throat. Her husband (as Matt supposed he must be) was a tall man, large-boned and strongly built, with a rounded face and dark wavy hair just beginning to gray a bit at the temples; he was dressed like a range man, in a dark red cotton shirt, an embroidered buckskin vest and dark corduroy breeches, with a blue-patterned bandanna loosely knotted around his throat, and an ornamented silver hatband on his pearl-gray hat. There was a gun on his hip, blued steel with rosewood handles, in a beautifully tooled holster.

"Ben McKittrick," he offered, extending his hand. "This is my wife, Francie. The signs say this is a stage relay—reckon you could spare some water for our team?"

_Francie,_ Matt thought. _Where have I heard that name?_ _Wasn't it… yeah, it was when Jess told us about his family. His sister was named that_. He gave the woman another quick once-over. _She don't look a thing like him, and anyhow, didn't he say his Francie was dead of cholera?_ "Don't see any reason not to," he said aloud. "Miz McKittrick, if you'd care to get out of the hot sun a spell, my wife's in the kitchen; I reckon she might be able to find somethin' cool for you to drink. Mike—what are you doin' there?" he added.

Mike had slipped quietly around to peer into the back of the wagon bed, just to reassure himself that there was no injured Jess in it. He looked up guiltily, then said, "They must'a' come a long ways, Uncle Matt, look at this big trunk they got." It was, Matt privately agreed, a very large trunk—and as a relay operator he had seen quite a few: a good forty inches long, made of what he guessed was duck-covered wood. Alongside it were a bedroll, a leather satchel, and a sack which, judging by its contours, had a saddle in it; those would be the husband's.

"That ain't any business of ours," he reminded the boy with a disapproving look. "Now you take Miz McKittrick on in to your Aunt Mary, and we'll see to this team."

"Yes, sir," said Mike in a subdued voice, and as McKittrick swung down and handed his wife to earth, he took her hand in his and headed toward the house.

"I'll apologize for the boy," Matt offered. "He's only lived here about a year—ain't quite got used to Western manners."

"He was right, though," the other said. "We _have_ come a long ways. All the way from Texas, though mostly not by wagon."

Matt studied him thoughtfully. "Seems to me I heard of a Ben McKittrick out of Texas," he mentioned. "Seems to me he might've looked a lot like you."

"Probably because he _was_ me," McKittrick replied. "But I'm not in that business any more, Mr. Sherman. I just did two years in Huntsville Prison, and that changes a man—that and marriage. I've got money saved, and we're thinkin' about goin' into horses, Francie and me."

"I didn't ask," Matt said mildly, "but if that's your plan, I wish you well of it. There's more than one man's give up that trade and made a good new life for himself." He knew better than to mention that one such was his junior partner. McKittrick might well have an old grudge or two cooking against some of the other men who followed his line, and Matt was keenly aware of his obligations toward all the members of his peculiarly blended family. He'd wait till Jess got home, and then ask if he and McKittrick had any reason to quarrel.

"I'm obliged," said McKittrick. "Have you lived in these parts long, Mr. Sherman?"

"Settled here in '58," Matt replied, not knowing that Slim had said almost the same thing to Hank Holloway just the day before. "How come you to ask?"

"Well, of course we can ask when we get into Laramie, but I figured it'd do no harm to start a little early. We're tryin' to run down a brother of my wife's, and we've got reason to think he may be workin' in this Basin somewhere. An old settler like yourself might know him. John—maybe Johnny—Jordan."

_Jordan? Then she was Francie Jordan before she married, _Matt told himself. _So __she ain't Jess's sister. No. 'Course she ain't. You're gettin' fanciful in your old age, Sherman. Jess's sister's dead. He told us so himself._ He pondered the question a moment. "No," he said slowly, "I can't say as the name's familiar to me. Of course this here is a small place, and mostly fenced, so I don't hire help much except at roundup time; me and my boys can mostly handle the beef by ourselves, 'specially now that my youngest is past fourteen."

McKittrick nodded. "All right. Obliged, just the same. Is it far into Laramie?"

"Just about twelve miles," said Matt. "You see that little divide over north? You cross that and the bridge—we built it—over the creek on the other side, then turn left when you hit the road. You'll make it to town in somethin' beyond an hour."

"Sounds good," said McKittrick. "I'll unhook the trace chains if you'll lead the horses off the doubletree."

In the kitchen, Mary Sherman had welcomed Francie cordially, introduced Jonesy, and invited the guest to sit down, then offered her a glass of a clear brown liquid which Francie sipped uncertainly before looking up in surprise. "That's real refreshin', Mrs. Sherman. What is it?"

"Molasses and vinegar water, spiced with ginger. Back in Illinois where we come from, everybody makes it up in the summer and fall, to give to the reaper crews. Care for a slice of pie? We almost always have a couple on hand for the stage passengers. Jonesy baked a green-tomato one this morning, and I made a custard."

"Custard sounds lovely—no offense to your tomato pie, Mr. Jones," said Francie.

"None taken, ma'am," Jonesy assured her. Mary was already opening the icebox, bringing out the fluffy yellow pie with its crinkly edges. Mike hovered by with a hopeful expression.

No one had reason to go into the sitting room, where a couple of the framed photographs on the mantelpiece featured Jess Harper.

**SR**

**On the trail, that night:**

Jess came awake with a violent start and a strangled grunt. For a minute or two he lay quite still, as training and experience bade, listening to his own harsh, accelerated breathing and probing the darkness with eyes and ears and even nose; he knew he'd been awakened by a dream, not by any outside stimulus, but what had brought the dream on?

For that matter, how was it he even remembered the dang thing? Ordinarily he didn't.

Maybe it was because this hadn't been a nightmare, like most of the ones that brought him up out of a sound sleep. Or used to, rather; he didn't have them near so much any more, now that Bannister was dead and his family paid for.

When he felt sure that nothing out of place was going on, he sat up slowly, looking around at the scattered shapes of the sleeping possemen. Most weren't range men like himself, and weren't used to spending their days a-horseback in the open air; once they'd eaten they were about ready to turn in, and having done so they slept like logs. Mort hadn't set any sentries; if they'd been chasing Indian raiders he would have, but white outlaws weren't much inclined to double back except briefly to confuse their trail.

Jess flipped his blankets back, pushed to his feet and walked quietly over to the fire that centered the camp. He stirred up the coals under the coffeepot, pushed in a few fresh sticks, and reached into his vest for the makin's. He'd pretty much given up on smoking since he'd come to Sherman Ranch: Matt liked to enjoy a good cigar now and then, chiefly after Sunday dinner, and Jonesy had his pipe, but Mary thought cigarettes were a filthy habit and discouraged them where the boys might see. Still, there was enough cowboy in Jess, even after a decade as a gun-for-hire (and, for a while, a uniformed soldier), that when he was uneasy or embarrassed or felt a need to think, it was second nature for him to roll a smoke. He cupped the thin wheat-paper with his forefinger, shook tobacco into it from the little muslin drawstring bag, pulled the sack shut with his teeth, licked the edge of the paper, smoothed the cigarette into a firm roll, and held a flaming twig to the end, inhaling till it caught.

Jess had told Slim once that he always seemed to think best when he was under an open sky—"ponderin' time," he'd called it. If it was night and he was alone, all the better; there was nothing to distract him. Drawing slowly on his smoke, he tried to work out what was troubling him. Holloway had said that the stage robber had talked "rather the way Mr. Harper does." Of course, as Mort had noted, Jess was hardly the first man to leave the Panhandle in search of greener pastures, and he doubted he'd been the last. Yet Holloway had also said he hadn't been referring to the man's accent alone. How had he put it? _"…the quality of the voice—the pitch and timbre of it, the general sound."_

On the other hand, they already knew that Holloway had lied about how Mose happened to get shot. But what cause would he have had to lie about this other?

For that matter, why had he lied about Mose? Were the two somehow connected, maybe? Jess examined that possibility. Had Holloway and the road-agent been in cahoots? It would hardly have been the first time outlaws had put one of their own on the inside—to watch for a trap, to provide intimidation and backup. _No,_ Jess decided after a minute. Up to this point, there'd been only two of them, the one down in the road and the one—the maybe-Mexican—providing cover from the rocks. And it had worked—with no need to shoot anyone. Why change a successful pattern now? And why, if Holloway _had_ been the robbers' accomplice, hadn't they made sure Mose was in no condition to say so? _No. That ain't the answer. He lied about Mose, that's certain. But not about the road-agent. At least, I don't reckon so_.

He thought about what that might mean. _Could_ it be? Dared he hope? A similarity of accent was one thing, and of voice entire another…

And there was one more thing, something he hadn't told Mort yet.

At the scene of the holdup, off to the roadside, where the ground wasn't packed so hard, he'd found two lines of boot-tracks, where the man in the road had taken the bags of dust over—you could tell by the depth of his prints that he'd been carrying a fair weight—and passed some of them to his partner, who'd come down out of the rocks, before they headed off to get their horses. The road-agent's length of stride suggested, as Holloway had said, a man only a little shorter than Jess himself, though rather lighter.

And the toes had pointed straight ahead.

Most white people walked with toes turned outward. Jess didn't. He'd been barely four when Jack Henry Milburn had taught him to walk like an Indian, toes pointing the way he was going. "Two reasons," the boss wrangler had said. "First, a man who walks that way will never have trouble with his arches. Second, if you're on the run from someone, if you pull your horse's shoes or put boots on him, and then you wear moccasins—pointin' your toes straight will fool whoever's followin' you into thinkin' he's picked up an Indian's trail; not yours." Jess had walked that same way ever since.

And Johnny, who'd loved and worshipped his big brother, who'd said over and over that when he grew up he wanted to be "just like Jess"—Johnny had seen, and copied it, and walked that way too, for as long as Jess had lived in the same house with him. Somehow, Jess didn't think he'd have stopped just because Jess wasn't there any more.

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean anything. Maybe this road-agent had been taken captive in a raid as a child and lived a time with the Indians before returning to his own people. They'd have taught him to walk their way just as they would have taught him to speak their language, to ride bareback, to use a bow and arrow.

Like as not that was the answer.

_But still…_

"Hey," said a quiet voice behind him. "Something wrong?"

He didn't turn. "Not like you're thinkin'. Come have some coffee, it'll be hot in another minute."

Mort Corey settled down on the ground beside him. "What's got you awake at this hour? By what I've heard Matt and Slim say, once you're down for the night you mostly sleep like a hibernating bear."

"Dreamin'," Jess said with a shrug, reaching for the coffeepot.

"About?"

"Nothin' to do with us. Just me. Somebody I ain't—no; somebody I try not to think much about. Reckon it was what Holloway said that got it cookin' in my head, that one of them fellers we're chasin' sounded like me." Almost inaudibly: "He might'a' growed up to sound like me, maybe…"

"He who?"

Jess said nothing for a moment, then: "Johnny. Johnny Harper—John _Jordan_ Harper. My kid brother." He picked up one of the tin cups lined up on a rock and tipped the pot over it, then passed it to the sheriff.

"Didn't know you had one," said Mort. It wasn't quite a question, so it wasn't unmannerly, and anyway Mort was both a lawman and a friend.

"Don't," said Jess. "Maybe."

"Do you know you've got a way of talking in code?" Mort asked.

Pause. "Sorry. Reckon so. Habit. Comes with the line of work I used to be in." He sighed. "You know about… well, why I killed Bannister."

"I know you had two reasons for killing him," said Corey evenly. "One was to save Mary and Andy and Jonesy. The other was a blood debt, for your family."

"Yeah." Jess hesitated again, framing his words. "Johnny come next after me. He wasn't quite twelve when—when the fire happened." It was shorthand speech: even now, four years after the books had been closed, Jess didn't like to mention Bannister's name, or the raid. "You been in Texas, maybe you know—a boy that age, most of all if he's raised in cow country, he's pretty close to a man. Johnny and me and our sister Francie was all that got out that day, and Johnny bein' the age he was, he wanted to help me settle the debt. But I told him it'd be best he stayed on with Francie and kinda looked after her. Fact was, of course, he couldn't use a sixgun yet, and I reckoned havin' to look after me and him as well might be enough to get us both killed."

The sheriff nodded. "I can see that."

Jess went on as if he hadn't spoken. "I told him that, 'cause I wasn't in the habit of lyin' to him, and he said, 'When I'm older—when I've learned to use a gun—then can I come with you? Then can I help?'" He looked around at his friend. "He had a right, Mort. He'd lost kin same as me. So I told him if he'd get himself a gun and practice, I'd come back when he was fifteen, which was what I was then, and get him and we'd go together. We made a promise, each one to the other."

"I take it you didn't go back," Mort prompted into the silence.

"Couldn't exactly," said Jess. "He'd'a' turned fifteen July of '63—'bout a week after Gettysburg; funny I never thought about that before. I was back in Texas earlier that year, me and Dixie Howard and our trailmate, Hal Owen. We done a job on the old Cotton Road, guardin' for a wagon train, and then went back to Houston with it. Dixie had a notion the conscript office had an eye on us, and him and Hal took off for Mexico rather than get took up. I was just thinkin' of headin' for Amarillo to get Johnny when they drafted me."

"So you had to go into the Confederate army," Corey guessed.

"Yeah. And it wasn't too long after that the Mississippi was closed, and from then on we didn't get much news or mail from Texas—nor from Arkansas or west Lou'siana neither, come to that; and I never was much for letter-writin' nohow, so Francie wouldn't'a' known how to reach me by then." Another painful pause. "I got captured the next spring, and bein' as I still had… business to take care of, I didn't reckon I had no right to sit out the war in a prison camp and maybe die there. So when the recruiters come 'round for the U.S. Volunteers, I signed up, figurin' I'd have a better chance against the Indians, and they shipped me out to New Mexico. They released me late in May of '65, and I headed for the Panhandle, wantin' to keep the promise I'd made to Johnny; I was a couple years late by then, but I hoped he'd understand, with the war.

"I got to Amarillo, and there wasn't hardly nobody left. It was like Clay County, where the whole population refugeed out to get away from the Indian raids. Plus which the Bradys—friends of our folks', they was, took us in afterward—they had a hardware store and couldn't hardly get no stock for it; even most of what come up out of Mexico, and plenty of freight did, was foodstuffs and medicine and ammunition. Them I talked to said Mr. Brady had reckoned on goin' to Brownsville, gettin' work on the docks at Bagdad. I started that way, and then I heard there'd been cholera there, right around the time they'd'a' reached it."

"Cholera," said Mort softly. It ranked as the most feared killer among diseases, though a relative newcomer to American shores: it had been a scourge in India for centuries before it appeared in the United States, by way of Western Europe, in 1832-4 (a visitation that was particularly rough in Texas), dissipated, scourged the country as a whole in '37, and then burst forth again in the winter of 1848-9 to sweep most of the country's major cities; by May it had killed 5000 in New York City and spread as far as Wisconsin, bringing the entire state of Ohio to a virtual standstill till winter set in. St. Louis lost one in ten of its population, Cincinnati almost as much, Sandusky more. In the Rio Grande valley an Army surgeon estimated that ten per cent of the population sickened. It also went west with the wagon trains out of the river towns, causing many deaths among the gold-seekers just beginning to flood their way across the prairie. From then till 1854, there was no period when it didn't appear somewhere in the country. The last national epidemic of it had struck in 1866, but localized ones continued both in the interim and since.

Mort himself had been in the war, and he knew that vast numbers of people massed together, as they'd been in the armies, created ideal conditions for the spread of all sorts of infectious diseases. Rural civilians refugeeing from areas of threat—whether by enemy troops, Indians, Mexicans, or outlaws—had doubtless been equally vulnerable: country folk, coming to a big town or a city—like Brownsville, which, though it had less than 2800 citizens at the start of the war, became a crossroads and a gathering place for the blockading trade in short order, being just over the river from the neutral port of Matamoros—had probably never been in contact with so many people, cumulatively or simultaneously, since they were born. Moreover port cities had more than their share of both foreign visitors and outbreaks.

Cholera was one of the most severe and lethal of diseases, more to be feared than yellow fever; it ran through a community like a prairie fire, and doctors could do little save administer opiates to dull the pain. The epidemic didn't usually last very long, but while it did about the only way to check its spread was quarantine. It was a tricky sickness—half the people in a place might be down with it and half not, though all took the same bad food or water. About fifty per cent of victims died, some in a day, some taking closer to a week of severe cramps, terrible retching agony, fever and chills. And it could kill with frightening speed: a victim who felt fine when he got up in the morning might be dead by noon. Corey could imagine that when there was an epidemic of it going, the casualties could have been so horrific that many victims would have been buried in anonymous mass graves simply because there weren't enough healthy people around to do the job properly.

"I went on, just the same," said Jess slowly, his voice compressed, "hopin'… but… I couldn't find 'em. And records wasn't kept too good, with paper bein' short… I described 'em, the Bradys too… there was just no way to know, Mort. But I found one old lady who said she'd nursed a boy that looked kinda like Johnny… said he died." Another long aching pause. "I give up after that."

"I'm sorry, Jess," Corey said quietly. "I never knew."

"Wasn't no fault of yours. It… I don't… I try not to think about it."

Cautiously Mort reached out and laid his fingers lightly on Jess's arm, just below the elbow, not sure how he'd take it: the younger man still sometimes had bad reactions to being touched, except by his adopted family. "There's nothing you could have done for him—for either of them."

"I ain't so sure about that," Jess replied. "Slim talked _me_ back, after that cellmate of Bannister's shot me and I near give up. I could'a' done the same for them, maybe…" A mask of painful guilt had settled over his lean features. Jess very seldom felt shame for anything he did, but when he thought he had failed someone who depended on him—that was different.

"But you dreamed about Johnny tonight," said Mort after a moment, returning to what had started the conversation.

"Yeah." He looked around. "Mort, what if I was wrong? What if Johnny—Francie too, maybe—didn't die?"

Corey gazed at his friend with compassion. "It was a dream, Jess, that's all. Like you said, what Holloway told us probably reminded you of him. It would be natural for you to dream about him with that in your mind."

But Jess shook his head slowly. "Four years back I might'a' said the same. But I've learned there's more to the world than what we can see and touch. Matt and Slim, they can talk Sioux; they've both told me there's a word in it for a family like we've all made, them and Mary and Andy and me and Jonesy and Aunt Daisy and Mike. _Hunka_. Means 'chosen,' kind of, only it ain't just about human folks doin' the choosin'; it's about the spirits guidin' you to the place you belong. And there's dreams that's true. Not just nightmares, like I used to have such a lot of—dreams that come _before_ somethin' happens, to give you warnin' of it. I've seen it happen amongst Indians, known 'em to tell of dreamin' a thing and later it comin' out just like they'd seen it."

Mort said nothing to this, though a lawman's natural pragmatism made him doubtful. Jess went on: "It ain't just about the dream, neither. That was what woke me up, but I been sittin' here thinkin'. Back around '67, '68, I heard a time or two about this comin' young gunhand, called himself the Amarillo Kid. The way folks talked of him, he favored me considerable. I didn't pay it much heed the first or second time I heard it, reckoned that in the time since I left, even a little bitty place like Amarillo could'a' throwed up a 'Kid' or two, but I kept on pickin' up talk about him… they said he was fast, faster'n me, maybe, and good. And I know my colorin' ain't what you'd call uncommon, but the stories kept on accruin', and I reckon there's been a tiny seed of disturbance workin' away… I'm just wonderin' if… if it could be—" He stopped again, as if reluctant to say his brother's name.

"And if it is?" Mort prompted.

Again Jess shook his head. "I dunno. I ain't heard much of him in quite some spell… reckon since a couple months after—you know. I even done some askin' when we was all down to Denver that time… figured bein' as lots of cattlemen reckon that's the only city worth visitin' between Chicago and 'Frisco, if there was word to be had, that'd be where to hear it… but things got kinda busy for a spell, Matt would'a' told you…"

"So you never got around to tracking him down," Mort guessed.

"No," said Jess softly, the brief word heavy with pain. _If he did go to livin' by his gun… there's always somebody faster… if I'd believed when I first heard, maybe I could'a' found him… maybe… to lose him twice… _He had always been closest to Johnny, of all his siblings, and he'd have been less than human if he hadn't been both flattered by and proud of the younger boy's undisguised worship. He remembered, too, how the very day the Sioux war party had ambushed him and led to his blundering onto Sherman land and being found by Andy, he'd been thinking, as he rode along the trail from the Colorado line, that if only Johnny hadn't died of the cholera, back in '63, there'd at least be two of them on this trail—for at that time, of course, he'd still had Bannister and his obligation on his mind. _And if we'd been together… what then? Would I'a' stayed here? Would Matt and them even offered?_

_Would we'a' settled it with Bannister? 'Cause if we __hadn't__ stayed, if we'd gone on, and Lydacker had broke Bannister out of prison, we'd'a' maybe never known… and Matt and his whole family'd'a' died, and…_

He shook his head. It was all too bewildering, to think of the ways the Tennison land war could have turned out.

_And there ain't no more point to it than to wonderin' what would'a' happened if the South had won…_

He sighed. "Reckon you're right, Mort. It was a dream. It didn't mean nothin'." His cigarette was long since smoked out; he flipped it into the fire and stood. "Better get back to bed, we still gotta try to find them two…"

**SR**

**Laramie, the next morning:**

Stagecoach schedules called for early departures: except on the old transcontinental lines, most coaches didn't run at night, so they needed all the hours of daylight they could get. For this reason the chief hotel in any town was likely to be the terminus and waiting room for the first and last stages of the day, and Ben and Francie weren't surprised to see two men and a woman, all with luggage close at hand, sitting in the lobby when they came down for breakfast. The woman, Francie noticed, was white-haired but seemed quite alert despite that and the early hour; she was chatting animatedly with one of the men. She wore a green travelling suit with a white jabot at the throat—it brought out the roses in her cheeks—and a little hat with a puff of green netting at the crown and two golden-red cock feathers arching out of it; a silver pin with a jade setting held the dress at the throat, harmonizing with its color, and there was a little gold pendant watch, with a hunter case, pinned to her bosom. Ben, for his part, observed that both the men wore handguns, though rather high, and were dressed in a semi-formal style—good vests and shirts with decent collars, but Western-style boots, hats, trousers, and jackets. _Cattle buyers,_ he guessed, _or maybe ranchers._

They hadn't had time to do much, last evening, but check into the hotel, get the wagon and team taken care of, and have something to eat: a day in the sun and fresh air had done Ben a lot of good, as had their week-plus on riverboats, but he still tired more easily than before he went into prison. When the waitress came to take their order, Ben said to her, "Where would we find Sheriff Mort Corey, Miss?"

"Mostly at his office, about a block up the street," the girl replied, "but he's out of town just now, on a posse. Left two days ago. No way to say when he'll be back; depends what kind of sign they find. He left a deputy to watch the place…"

Ben pondered that. Marbury had said that Corey had been here and in office at the time Bannister was killed; he hadn't said anything about the man's deputies. "Obliged," was what he said, and the waitress left to take their order to the kitchen.

"What are you thinkin'?" Francie asked.

"I'm thinkin' that if Johnny's our road-agent, knowin' that he's workin' this basin, he might'a' spent a couple of weeks here in town before he pulled his first robbery," her husband replied. "If it was him in Colorado and around Cheyenne, we know he doesn't rob the passengers or bother the mail; he just breaks into the express box. That means when he comes into a new country, he's got to take some time gettin' a picture of the roads, the good hideouts, when the stages are likely to be carryin' boxes worth his trouble. Maybe he stayed someplace in town and signed himself John Jordan, like when he bought the bank draft. If we can make sure of that, it won't tell us where he is _now,_ but at least we'll know he's possibly still in this part of the Territory."

Francie listened attentively, her face intent and thoughtful. "That seems like sense. Maybe he's got himself some kind of pipeline, somebody he's paid to get word to him when there's a rich box goin' out. Maybe this feller lets him know by puttin' some kind of coded advertisement in the Laramie or Medicine Bow paper, or leavin' a message in some place where he can pick it up. Maybe we could do the same. But first, like you say, we need to find out if he's in these parts."

Ben nodded. "There's another thing I thought of too," he said. "Mr. Marbury told us Frank Bannister was killed during a range dispute. That's a thing folks would remember, even four years later. Maybe we don't have to sit around and wait for the sheriff and his posse to get back. Maybe I can run down somebody who can give me some details about it."

"Saloons?" Francie guessed.

"Best place I know to get news," Ben reminded her—which was true: a saloon was more than a place to drink, or gamble, or flirt with a pretty, lively girl; it was meeting place, club, and where men went to make business deals, to learn about grazing conditions, business and political considerations, and notable trials, to find out whether the Indians were out or who had cattle for sale. It almost always had a supply of newspapers at hand, quite routinely dating back at least a month, and it was a clearing house for information of all kinds.

She nodded. "I brought my knittin' bag, and I saw a sign on the dry-goods store—they sell books too. And the tobacco shop's got magazines, maybe I can pick up the latest _Godey's_ or _Demorest's_. You go on, and I'll wait for you at the hotel."

**SR**

**Six miles along the ****northbound ****road, not quite an hour later:**

The cattle buyers, Mr. Stedman and Mr. York, were both gallant and intelligent, and Daisy was almost sorry she'd have to get off at Sherman Ranch. She had always enjoyed talking with people she met on stages and trains, and had learned a great deal about the West from such travellers, which was valuable to her; she wanted to be equipped to meet the challenges of this wild land where she was making a new life for herself, as Matt and Mary had done so long ago. She had supposed that cattle would generally change hands at the railhead towns, like Cheyenne, but Mr. York had explained that he and his partner often dealt direct with ranchers farther north, chiefly in the valleys of western Montana. "That way," he'd said, "they know exactly who they'll be selling to, and they get their money guaranteed besides; they don't risk that the market will collapse before they can get their herds to the shipping point."

The shotgun's bellow cut across their conversation, followed by a shout: "Pull up and hold 'em!"

Stedman, who was nearest the window, cautiously stuck his head out. "Road-agent," he grunted. "Not quite standing in the middle of the trail, so the driver can't run him down."

"He wouldn't, surely," said Daisy, but her hand went to the brooch at her throat and the watch on her bosom. She knew that stagecoach robbers quite routinely frisked the passengers for valuables besides emptying out the express box and, often, taking the mailbag for later inspection.

The robber's voice sounded again. "Now I want you to take a look upslope behind me and take note of that rifle barrel showin' over the rocks. You're covered, and it's a Spencer .56, so don't try nothin' fancy and we won't have no trouble." Daisy heard the crunch of steps on the packed surface of the road, the soft jingle of spurs, and then a man with a flour-sack dropped over his head, holes cut in it to see through, a low-crowned dove-gray hat with an Indian-beaded band jammed on top of it, buckskin-thong jaw strap flipped around behind, appeared beside the right-hand door. "Everybody out," he commanded. "I want you all where I can see you, so's none of you gets brave."

Stedman swung out first, reaching up to help Daisy, and York last of all. Daisy stared at the hooded holdup man in bewilderment. Despite the flour-sack she could make out the cobalt blue of his eyes, and while the rough fabric probably muffled his voice somewhat, it was still hauntingly, almost frighteningly familiar. He was covered down to the shins by a long white cotton duster, which served to hide both his build and most of his clothes, but she guessed him to be just under six feet tall, and the way he'd planted his boots, the way he held his shoulders, weren't strange to her either. _It can't be,_ she thought. _He wouldn't do that to us_.

He became aware of her regard and his eyes settled on her. There was nothing threatening in his gaze, nor any hint of recognition; it was more as if he sensed her uncertainty and returned it, puzzled by her bewildered regard. Tentatively she held out her needlepoint bag, with its design of roses and Cupids, and reached up with her other hand to unfasten her watch.

"No, ma'am," he said quietly, in that same warm gravelly baritone voice. "Don't trouble yourself none. I don't rob passengers. Goes for you fellers too," he added to Stedman and York. "Just you hold yourselves easy, this don't have to take long. But what I said to the driver and the guard goes for you too—there's a feller up there in the rocks and he's a friend of mine."

He was holding a double-barrelled shotgun in his left hand, Daisy observed, and a rather large sixgun, which looked very much like Matt Sherman's but had a slightly shorter barrel, in his right. He glanced in through the open door to make sure there was no one left inside, then backed quickly to a point even with the driver's seat and about ten feet back from the front wheel. "All right," he said in a louder voice, "throw down the box."

There was a pause, and then an ironbound chest, painted dark green, came tumbling down from on high and hit the surface of the road with a heavy slam. Daisy had learned that express boxes often weighed a good deal more than whatever was in them, and judging by the dent this one made, it was no exception. She flinched as the robber swung his sixgun down at an angle and squeezed the trigger; there was a brief metallic whine and the padlock went flying off the hasp. He slipped the pointed horseman's toe of his boot under the edge of the lid and gave a sharp lift, and the cover flipped back. Daisy couldn't see what was inside, but clearly the robber could, for he chuckled softly before glancing back up toward the driver and guard. "Ain't as smart as you think you are, huh?" he taunted. "All right, everybody back on board and get goin'."

In moments Stedman had helped her back into the coach, and she heard a wildcat squall as the driver whipped up his horses. _Does he realize,_ she thought of the road-agent_, that it's less than an hour to the ranch? That as soon as we get in the driver will tell Matt what happened?_

_It __can't__ be… can it? I've never seen Jess wear trousers like those, or brass spurs either…_

_Oh, dear… I don't feel well at all… I think I'm going to—_

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch:**

The first stage of the day came roaring into the yard as if the team were running away again, but this time the driver was sitting up on the box with his foot resting on the brake, and he hauled in hard on the lines, dragging the excited animals to a stop. The whole family—including Slim and Andy, who'd been out on the range yesterday when the McKittricks came through, and Mose, with his arm in a sling—was waiting to welcome Daisy home and watched in surprise as the vehicle slid to a rocking halt. "Matt!" the driver hollered, wrapping his lines and scrambling down. "Matt, we got held up!"

"Again?" murmured Slim in disbelief, just as the right door flew open and a man wearing an elkskin jacket and a fawn Stetson with a Montana peak stuck his head out.

"Somebody give me a hand here," he cried, "we've got a lady on board who's fainted."

It was Daisy, of course, with her hat (probably new; none of the family recognized it) knocked askew and her travelling suit unfastened at the neck. Matt took her by the ankles, Slim by the shoulders, and Mary ran on ahead to open her bed.

Five minutes later, having left his wife to tend to their returning wanderer, Matt was in the sitting room questioning the driver about the holdup. "What'd they get?" he asked, once he'd satisfied himself that the road-agent's description matched that of the one Mose had encountered.

The driver was a new man, who'd recently swapped routes with Charlie; drivers were always doing that because they got sick of driving the same stretch of road all the time. He looked glum. "Currency transfer to Medicine Bow. Thirty thousand was the figure they gave me at the office."

Matt traded glances with his oldest son. "Reckon them boys guessed that all that to-do yesterday was a blind."

"Looks that way," Slim agreed. "What should we do? Mort's still out—if he'd gotten back Jess would have too."

"Best send in word, all the same," his father decided. "There's a deputy holdin' down the office, he'll see Mort gets it. We'll need to get your passengers' names, Ted," he added, "and where Mort can get in touch with 'em in case their testimony's wanted, though of course Daisy'll be here."

"Andy could go," Slim suggested. "He doesn't weigh as much as I do, so he can get into town and back here in time to help with the noon coach."

The older man nodded. "Sounds good. You go get Cyclone saddled for him, son, while he helps Jonesy with the teams. Come on, Ted, I got a notion you could do with a cup of coffee, and maybe a nip of somethin' in it."

In the kitchen, the guard had gotten food and coffee out for the two rather shaken male passengers. Matt produced a jug from behind the woodbox and splashed whiskey into everyone's coffee mugs. He knew that Mary, who was a confirmed teetotaller but never tried to impose her convictions on her husband, was quite well aware that it was there and that he offered drinks to his guests when the occasion suggested it, and she simply disregarded these incidents and pretended that they hadn't actually occurred in her house. "Is Mrs. Cooper all right?" asked one of the passengers.

"She'll be fine. Don't know if she told you—this is where she lives. My wife'll see to her. Now," said Matt, pulling open a drawer and digging out the tablet Mary and Jonesy used to write their shopping lists, "you two tell me your names…"

**SR**

**Laramie, late that afternoon:**

Francie looked up in surprise as the door of the hotel room flew open and Ben charged in and strode across to her chair. "You're not gonna believe this," he said. "I don't know as I do yet."

"What did you find out?" Francie demanded at once.

"Mr. Marbury was right," Ben told her. "Bannister was killed here, just about four years ago. Well, not _here_ here—in Laramie, I mean. You know where? That place we stopped at yesterday—Shermans'. And you want to guess who did it? Feller name of Jess Harper."

Francie's knitting and needles tumbled to the carpet from hands gone slack. "Jess? Ben, are you sure?"

He nodded emphatically. "I stopped in at three different places plus the livery, and everybody I talked to agreed. They even described him, and it matched what I heard of him back when I knew him to be for hire. Seems he was workin' for Matt Sherman when the trouble started, and he took it on himself to sort of advise the local folks how to deal with land grabbers." He was grinning now. "And what's better, he's there still. Sherman and his son took him on as a partner just this spring."

"But why didn't we see him yesterday, then?" Francie asked in bewilderment.

"Because one of the stages got held up a couple of days ago, and he went out with the posse. Seems he's the sheriff's go-to tracker—they say he's the best in this part of the Territory."

"He would be," said Francie. "Jack Henry taught him—I told you that. Even when he wasn't quite twelve, he was like a hound dog on a trail." Then: "What about this holdup? Ben? Was it…?"

Her husband's face sobered. "I'm afraid it looks that way," he agreed. "Feller in a duster and a flour-sack hood, about five-nine or -ten, talkin' with a Panhandle accent, wearin' Mexican _calzoneras_ and armed with a shotgun and a Dragoon .44, or somethin' awfully like one. Second feller up in the rocks above the road, coverin' for him with a rifle."

Francie stood up. "We need to get out there," she said.

"No point goin' now," Ben replied. "It's late. We'd be bargin' in on 'em at supper—plus the posse's still out, remember; Jess won't be there. We don't know how much he's told 'em about his family. It might be better to wait till he gets back. Anyhow, if we stay here, we'll be able to get first word on what becomes of Johnny—if it _is_ Johnny."

She considered this while he waited, giving her time to turn things over in her mind. "I reckon you're right," she agreed slowly. "I hate waitin', even maybe only another day, but if it's Johnny we need to be sure of both of 'em." She came into his arms. "I can't believe it. I never hoped we might find Johnny _and_ Jess."

"We haven't found 'em yet," Ben observed. "But I reckon we're closer than we've been up to now."

**SR**

**In the high country east of Sherman Ranch, about the same time:**

They were working their way back toward the hideout they'd found, riding the high ridges after the outlaw custom, so they could watch their back trail. "Maybe," Leonardo was saying, "we should take some time off, eh, Juanito? How much money do we have now?"

"With what we just got, better'n fifty thousand," Johnny replied. "Yeah, could be you're right. We could double back to Denver, pick up some supplies and have us a right good time, and I could send another of them bank drafts to Francie…" He sat his horse with the indolent grace of one who has grown up in the saddle, but his eyes were alert, sweeping the country round about and especially below, with a quick searching glance back every now and then, not in any set pattern, just in case they were being followed and somebody got careless. His mount picked its way daintily over the rough, uncertain ground with a prancing step. Topper was a big black with good legs and a light mouth, a white sock on his right foreleg, a white stocking on the right rear; in the rare instances where it was necessary to have the animal with him when he staged a holdup, Johnny always concealed these beforehand with boot polish, then washed it off afterward, which tended to confuse the witnesses. He was high-spirited, probably a good part Thoroughbred, but there was Western blood in him too, for he didn't tire easily; he had travelled some thirty miles already since they'd left the road, over difficult mountain trails, and still had a lot left. He'd been with Johnny a long time, and they knew each other well, the way it is with a man and any beast he owns. He was high-spirited, but used to Johnny, and always good-humored if treated as he expected to be.

Nardo suddenly checked his horse—a linebacked _bayo coyote,_ the kind that was called a "zebra dun" in Texas, a buckskin in the North, the latter being the more accurate term, since it had a mane and tail of true black—and bent forward over the flat Mexican horn of his low-cantled saddle, peering out ahead and to the right. Johnny reined in too, watching his partner, trusting him. A moment later Nardo piled out of the saddle and backed the _bayo_ down below the skyline, and Johnny copied him and threw himself flat behind a couple of low rocks, looking out between them. Nardo was carrying their binoculars today; he had them in his hand and trained on an open ridge about three hundred feet below. Johnny followed the line of the glasses and made out what the older man was looking at: a little knot of riders, maybe eight or ten of them, one out of the saddle and down on one knee as if examining sign. They traded uneasy glances. There was no reason for such a large band of men to be up in this high country at this time of year, which meant it almost had to be a posse, and they weren't more than five or six miles from the hideout.

Nardo went back to studying them through the glasses as the man on the ground stood and tilted his face upward to speak to one of the riders. _"Jesús, Maria, y José!"_ he whispered in shock, abandoning his English as he often did when under stress. "Juanito! _No vas a creer esto_ [you won't believe this]. _I _don't believe this. _Mira!_ The one standing, wearing _el sombrero negro."_ He passed the binoculars across to his partner, and Johnny took them and trained them where he'd been looking, thumbing the focusing knob to and fro till the image suited his eyes. The man's face jumped into clarity; it was like his own in a mirror, except for the several days' stubble on the jaw.

"_Jess,"_ Johnny hissed, too shocked even to use profanity. "It's _Jess_. And he's got a badge on his vest too."

"Your brother?" Nardo asked, more or less unnecessarily; he knew the story of the never-fulfilled promise.

"Yeah. I never knew he was in these parts, but if he's ridin' deputy on a posse he's got to've been for some spell—lawmen don't use men they ain't sure of."

Nardo said nothing for a moment, then: "What do you want to do?"

"Ain't sure," said Johnny meagerly. "They keep on like they're goin', they'll find the hideout. They can't be followin' us from what we done this mornin', posse from then ain't had time to get this far. Must'a' come out after we lifted that gold dust and I got clipped." He squirmed deeper into their covert, the glasses fixed on that face far below. "Let's just lay here a bit and see what they do."

**SR**

"I dunno, Mort," Jess Harper was saying. "I ain't seen a trail so hard to unravel in longer'n I can rightly recollect. I ain't even sure this is them. They crossed back over the road, I know that, and that's where I lost 'em."

"I remember," Corey agreed, nodding. "It was a good trick. With that duster the one of 'em wears, and being _behind_ the stage, they wouldn't be likely to run into anyone who'd connect them with the robbery until after you got into town. Nobody's seen their horses, either, so they wouldn't be recognized by those." He peered at the sign Jess had been studying. "I admit I'm not the tracker you are, but I don't see how you even managed to make these out."

Jess glanced down at the tracks. "There was two horses here, I'm sure of that. But out here on this bald, exposed to the weather, they've aged down, lost a lot of detail. Could be 'most anybody—a couple of cowhands checkin' the stock on the summer ranges, drifters bound north or east, even a trapper and a pack horse. Sure thing they wasn't through here these last two-three days…"

Again the sheriff nodded. "And that pine timber back there's no place to find a track, not with the mat of needles on the ground underneath." He glanced around at the pattern of the surrounding peaks. "Aren't we getting close to where Bannister and his friend were hiding out?"

He saw the flinch cross his friend's lean face. "Yeah," Jess said meagerly. "Up a couple canyons, a few miles further on." A pause, then: "Your posse, Mort. Up to you. What do you wanta do?"

Mort glanced around at the rest of the men. They'd been out, now, a good three days. Usually if you couldn't catch up with a fleeing outlaw by then, you could be pretty sure he'd gotten away, even in the vast counties of the West—or at least gotten enough of a lead on you that you weren't likely to catch up; if you had reason to think he was injured, you might keep on, just on the chance that he'd give out, but otherwise the game wasn't generally worth the candle. Mort considered the possibility of investigating that old trapper's cabin where Jess had first found Bannister's sign four years ago. If these tracks did belong to the men they were looking for, it was entirely possible that that was where they'd been holing up in between robberies. It might be worthwhile; it wasn't far. But the four jobs the pair had pulled up to now had netted them—what would it be?—twenty thousand in cash and dust? Most two-man teams would see that as a pretty good return for six weeks' work; even if they'd been holing up in that cabin, they'd have had time by now to get back there, pick up anything they'd cached, and go on over the mountains to Cheyenne for a good blowout. And as Jess had said, these tracks were too old to have been connected with the gold heist; they were scarcely visible at all. Very probably it was just what he'd suggested, a couple of innocent cowhands or drifters. Corey sighed. Nobody'd been killed, and the express company would make good on the dust; except for the thousand-dollar reward—which wouldn't be much split up amongst the lot of them, and could only be collected if the men they brought in were alive and could be convicted—there wasn't much incentive for them to go on, even if they'd been sure they were on the right track.

He braced his hands on the saddlehorn and tipped his head down so his hatbrim hid his face, thinking it over. "All right," he said at last. "You did your best, Jess. Let's go home, men."

**SR**

"They're turning back," said Nardo.

"Unless it's a trick," Johnny growled softly. He watched as the posse slowly began descending the slope it had just come up, the glasses tracking westward. Then: "I wanta know where Jess is stayin'. I'm gonna follow. You can go back to the hideout if you want to, Nardo, this ain't no business of yours."

The other looked offended. "If you weren't my _compañero_, Juanito, I might think you were insulting me. We go together."

Johnny looked at him a moment, then nodded. "All right. Let's get movin', I don't wanta lose 'em."

**SR**

**A few hours later, ****on the ridge above Sherman Ranch**:

"Sure you don't want to come on into town with us?" Mort asked. "You're due your posse money, you know." The fee for a posseman ranged from two to five dollars per day, plus the food he ate and a horse if necessary.

"Why'd I want to double back at this time of night?" Jess retorted. "Or have to sleep over at the hotel, or maybe in one of your cells? I can pick up the money next time I'm in town, you ain't gonna stiff me. I wanta get home, Mort. Aunt Daisy might be back by now…"

Mort grinned despite his weariness. He'd already figured out that there was a special bond between Daisy and Jess, as there was between Jess and Andy. He suspected it was a matter of Daisy loving Jess best because he seemed to need her the most; even two and a half years with Mary Sherman hadn't been enough to heal all the wounds of his losses and his years of wandering and hardship. "All right. You say hello to everyone for me."

"You bet," Jess agreed, and turned Traveller down the long switchback trail.

**SR**

"There he goes," said Nardo. "I can just make out the silver cockles on his hatband in the moonlight."

"Yeah." Johnny had the glasses to his eyes again. He followed his brother's progress for a moment, then shifted to see what the posse was doing. "Looks like the rest of 'em's headin' on back to town… crossin' over the stage road and headin' over to pick it up somewheres north. That place yonder must be where Jess keeps himself when he ain't ridin' on a posse."

"Isn't it one of the stage stations?"

Johnny thought about that. "Yeah, reckon you're right. I recollect seein' a sign while we was scoutin' this stretch of the road. 'Sherman Ranch and Relay Station,' it said."

"Maybe that's why he went with the posse," Nardo speculated. "If he looks so much like you, maybe he sounds like you too. Maybe there have been questions asked, thought that he's involved in what we've been doing." He watched his partner out of the side of his eye to see how Johnny would react to that idea. "Maybe he went along just to show he had no reason not to." A pause, then: "What do you want to do now?"

Again the younger man considered. "It's late. If we try to get back to the cabin now, we'll be lucky if we don't lame one of the horses, or fall into a ravine somewheres. Better we find some shelter and stay here the night. Them pines at the top of the ridge should do, they're thick enough to break the wind."

**SR**

"Somebody's coming in," said Andy, looking up quickly from the book he'd been reading aloud—a translation of M. Verne's newest romance, _Around the World in Eighty Days_.

Matt and Slim traded glances. "Jess?" the younger man guessed.

"Might be. Might not." Matt stood, reached for the rifle above the mantelpiece and set it beside the door, where he could grab it quickly if he needed it. The road, a light-colored strip even when there was no moon and therefore easy to follow, was much likelier to see travel after dark than the open range might be, and a single rider wasn't too likely to mean mischief, least of all coming at a walk, but in this country you never knew. Mary and Daisy watched as Slim pulled his Colt out of the holster on the rack and checked the loads.

"Hello, the house!" came a familiar gravelly voice. "Matt! Everybody! I'm back!"

"_Jess!"_ Andy shouted, and was out the door (leaving it swinging open behind him) before his father and brother could even react to the hail. Both tall men looked at each other, chuckled and shook their heads. Even after four years, even at an almost-grown-up sixteen and a half—Jess had begun teaching him to use a handgun just that spring—Andy was still as deeply bonded to Jess as he'd been from the young Texan's first weeks here.

Mary glanced at Daisy, who had caught her breath and was sitting forward in her chair. "I better put the coffeepot on and find that boy some grub," said Jonesy, rising.

Boots tromped on the porch, spurs jingled, and a weary, dusty, trail-worn Jess appeared in the doorway, one arm draped across Andy's shoulders. He grinned at sight of the other men's preparations for possible disaster, shook hands, tossed his hat on the peg and began unstrapping his gunbelt. "Any chance of a man gettin' somethin' to eat around here?" he asked. "We turned back I reckon about half-past three and didn't stop comin' down the mountain."

"Hold your horses," Jonesy advised from the other side of the kitchen archway. "I'll have somethin' for you in ten minutes or less."

"I'll take care of Trav for you, Jess," Andy offered, and vanished out the door again.

"Where's Mose?" Jess inquired.

"Went on into town on the late stage," Matt replied. "Take it you didn't get them two, or you'd said, first thing."

"No," Jess agreed with a sigh, "they lost us inside the first five miles. Spent most of two days tryin' to pick up their sign again." Noticing the somber expressions of the other two: "What's went on?"

"They hit again," said Slim, "this morning, about halfway between here and town. Got the currency transfer. Thirty thousand, Ted told us."

Jess thought that over for a moment. "That'll make it—what?—near fifty grand, maybe more, they've got since they come into these parts? If they got as much brains as I reckon they do, they're like to be gone by now." He crossed the room to Daisy's chair, dropped down on one knee and took both her hands in his, a warm gap-toothed smile spreading across his angular face. "Howdy, Aunt Daisy. Good to have you home. Sorry I wasn't here to tell you welcome back." Then: "You wasn't on that coach they hit, was you?"

"She was," said Mary, "and fainted right afterward, from what we were told. She was still unconscious when it got here."

The smile vanished as if it had never been, and Jess's cobalt-blue eyes went cold and black. "They didn't—Aunt Daisy—"

"I'm all right, dear," Daisy told him quickly. "It was just… surprise… that anyone would hold us up so close to town."

Jess looked around to his partners. "She's tellin' me the truth?"

"Same as all the times before," Slim agreed. "They didn't bother the passengers or the mail, just took the express."

The tension flowed visibly out of Jess's shoulders. "That's what matters, then," he said, and stood, his left hand still wrapped around Daisy's right. "Mike in bed?"

"Long ago," said Mary. "I'll help Jonesy with your food." She set her mending aside (it was one of Andy's shirts) and headed for the kitchen.

"I best clean up some, I reckon," Jess decided. He looked toward the bunkroom door, shook his head and turned toward the kitchen as well. Daisy watched him go, her eyes troubled; Slim saw it and wondered.

Fifteen minutes later, washed up and wearing a clean shirt and undershirt but not yet shaved, Jess was sitting on the hearth shelf with a cup of coffee beside him and a tray balanced on his knees, laden with an impromptu meal of cold boiled ham, cold fried chicken, thick bread-and-butter sandwiches, potato hash, Pennsylvania corn salad (a recipe Daisy had brought with her), sticky dark tomato conserve, pickled beets, sage cheese, hot hard-boiled eggs, spice cake and chocolate macaroons. "Mort sends his howdies," he said as he began to eat.

"No trouble on the trail, I'm guessin'," Matt observed.

Jess snorted. "Only findin' it," he replied, and described the last two days' tracking between bites of his supper. The gold-thieves had headed north a few miles, not troubling to hide their sign much, then crossed back over the stage road, doubled, and begun following the packed-down trace; at first Jess had tried to keep up with them by way of their horses' fresh droppings, but eventually there began to be more traffic, and thus more turds, which made it harder and harder. Eventually the posse had returned to the site of the robbery and tried to backtrack the pair to wherever they'd started out from, in the hope that that was where they'd eventually wind up again. They kept losing the sign and picking it up, moving gradually into the high summer pastures used by Sherman Ranch and the other small outfits whose holdings bordered the edge of the range. But the farther they went, the more attention the outlaws seemed to have given to covering their tracks. The trail broke up, and by this afternoon Jess had been no longer certain in his own mind that he was following the right men. "Mort decided to give it up, like I told you," he finished. "Took us a while gettin' down out of the mountains, what with it gettin' along toward sundown, and the country bein' what it is; that's how come I'm so late."

"It never matters how late you get here, Jess," Mary assured him. "This is your home, and we're always happy to have you back with us."

He gave her a shy, grateful smile and continued working on his food.

Later, while Matt and Slim took one last turn around the yard and began closing up the house for the night, and Jonesy and Andy headed for bed, the boy taking Jess's gear with him into the bunkroom, Jess himself settled on the front-porch rail, right leg down straight in classic gunfighter style, gazing out over the moonlit scene and slowly rolling himself a smoke. He hadn't said anything about his dream or his talk with Mort, and now he was wondering whether he should have—or whether he'd been smart to tell the sheriff so much. Mort knew that Holloway claimed the road-agent had sounded like Jess, although after Jess's discovery of the Spencer shell-casing, which threw doubt on the man's truth regarding Mose's wound, he might have decided to take that with a grain of salt. He knew that Jess was—or _had been,_ for a while—perhaps beginning to doubt that Johnny was dead. Had he put the two together?

There was Irish blood in the Harper line, Pa had always said—way back, but there just the same; and in the Coopers too. The Irish were Celts, a mystical people who believed in dreams and omens and in gods who appeared with advice or warning… or sometimes words of seduction. Was that why he'd been sent a dream of Johnny last night? Why he'd been given the ability to remember it afterward? So he'd get to thinking about all the things he'd told Mort, to wondering if… maybe… Johnny could still be alive, could be the youngster who called himself the Amarillo Kid, could be the stage robber?

Like many poorly-schooled people, Jess had of necessity developed a retentive aural memory, and he leafed slowly back through it, trying to recall exactly what people had said in his hearing about the Kid. It hadn't registered too keenly with him, at first, when they suggested that this young gun bore some resemblance to himself; he knew his pa had come out of a big family, and a lot of the people in it were wild and lawless—those who weren't either poor and shiftless or wily and subtle. He'd figured, in the beginning, that if the talk he'd heard was true, the Kid might be a cousin of his—it certainly wouldn't have surprised him; although he had wondered why a Cherokee County boy would take Amarillo for an alias, a town four hundred miles or more away from his own country on a straight line.

And yet…

He'd said himself that in the crowded conditions of wartime Brownsville, with paper scarce and people focused more on containing the epidemic and burying the dead than on keeping accurate track of who died—particularly, perhaps, folks who had no local kin or connections—records had almost certainly been only poorly kept. And, as he'd observed, his kind of coloring was far from unusual; the description he'd had of the dead boy was hardly conclusive, not even very detailed, and at fifteen Johnny's face might not have settled into its adult lines—Jess's hadn't, at that age. He _could_ have survived…

But if he had, if he was the Amarillo Kid—and that alias would certainly make more sense for him than for most others—then surely he would have heard of Jess just as Jess had heard of him. Why, if it was Johnny, hadn't he sought Jess out?

He'd always worshipped Jess, always wanted nothing better than to be like him. He'd begged to come along when Jess set out to find Frank Bannister. Jess hadn't been able to keep his promise to return for him, but Johnny'd always been smart; surely he could have guessed that the war had had something to do with it. Once he began to hear of Jess Harper the gunfighter, it must have occurred to him that this was his big brother. Why hadn't he tried to link up with Jess again?

Jess breathed in slowly, sucking in smoke, remembering the boy as he'd last seen him…

_Johnny was twelve and, like himself, had been riding since he was strong enough to sit up in a saddle on his own and shooting since he was big enough to keep two ends of a rifle or shotgun off the ground; he'd never quite taken to horsebreaking or tracking as Jess had, but then Jess had been Jack Henry's favorite pupil, and maybe he'd gotten a bit more attention from the boss wrangler. He stood just a couple of inches under five feet and weighed __ninety pounds__, but apart from that size difference, anyone who looked at the two of them side by side could see they were brothers. They had the same vivid dark-blue eyes, the same matte-black hair which sometimes took on a dark-brown cast in strong lamplight, the same deep wave to the forelock, the same lean cast to the features (though Johnny's still had a slightly unfinished look, as was natural for a boy his age), the same high-cut cheekbones and tapered, strongly-marked jaw (Johnny's beginning now to show more sharpness and angularity, and his chin too, as his face lost the roundness of childhood), the same straight thin nose, the same dimples that showed when they smiled, the same mobile mouth and expressive, oddly angled eyebrows. And in his walk, in the way he stood and sat a saddle, the way he moved, the way he held his head and used his hands, Johnny consciously patterned himself after Jess, copying the only big brother he could really remember._

_Johnny was very bright, brighter than Jess or even Francie, who of all the young Harpers had taken most readily to book-learning; eternally curious and a born explorer, though not much for reading, not as Francie was. He was also wild and willful—not cruel, not thoughtless, but deeply resentful of the choices and circumstances that had put the Harpers into the situation that was the only life he'd ever known; it was as if he knew, even better than Jess did, that there were other options, better ways, but didn't quite know how to change things, and therefore was inclined to take out his resentment on his environment and, perhaps especially, his father, whose family reputation had led to his elopement with Ma and, ultimately, to Wind Vane. He chafed at the loneliness of his boyhood, at discipline, at chores; only when he was out riding or hunting or fishing did he seem to feel the kind of innocent joy that youngsters were supposed to. His anger and sullenness hung about him like a thin mist, giving his handsome face an older look; if not for his size he could easily have been taken for Jess's age, or even more. Yet he had loved his younger siblings, if not perhaps with the intensity that Jess—for almost ten years the oldest of the boys—had; he'd even, sometimes, when something distracted him long enough to forget his discontent, seemed to have a kind of fondness for Sam. He __worshiped__ his big brother and had said more than once that all he wanted, when he grew up, was to "be just like Jess." And he was Southern through and through; the obligations of "blood" loomed large in his value system…_

The door creaked, and Jess turned sharply, automatically reaching for the sixgun that wasn't there. At the startled gasp that greeted his movement, he held quite still for a moment, then huffed out a breath, pitched his cigarette away and forced himself to relax. "Dad-gum, Aunt Daisy, you know better'n to do that!"

"I'm sorry, dear. I do still forget, sometimes. After all, we don't have people of your—_former_ profession—back East." Daisy was still wearing her checked muslin housedress, with an embroidered Chinese shawl pulled over her shoulders against the nighttime chill: at this altitude it got cool, sometimes plain cold, just about every night of the year.

"No'm. Reckon you don't," he said, and looked away from her, back over his left shoulder toward the long ridge that thrust out from the mountain.

"You seem troubled," Daisy suggested.

He forced a half-grin. "Just chasin' my own tail some, is all. Ain't nothin' for you to be frettin' on. Maybe Slim's catchin'. Matt told me once, long before you come here, that he's got a way of worryin' about everythin'."

"Are you thinking about this morning?"

He hesitated. "Maybe some. Other things too, but…" He turned back to face her. "I know you said nothin' happened—didn't you?—and Slim said they didn't trouble the passengers. I just—I can't help thinkin'…" They were both silent for a minute or two, Daisy respecting the reticence—part inborn, part trained—that made it so difficult for him to express what he really felt for the family that had become his own.

"I've been thinking too," she said then, "about whether I should tell you something. About that road-agent. I wonder if I'm just being a silly old woman, but…"

A sudden quick jolt of adrenalin shot through him, and his attention narrowed down and focused on her. "What? Aunt Daisy, if—"

"No," she said, "nothing like that. Truly, he didn't do anything. It was just that…"

He knew then. "That he sounded like me."

"How did you guess?" she asked in amazement.

"'Cause that one passenger that was on th'other stage, the one them two took the gold dust off of, he said that too. Only we know now—Mort and me—that he didn't tell everythin' like it was, so… But I'd ought to thought, it ain't like you to faint, Aunt Daisy, not for real, and least of all _after_ the trouble's gone by." She hadn't in Jubilee, after all. He peered at her sharply. "Aunt Daisy, are you sure of this? Are you plumb positive sure?"

"I heard him very clearly," she agreed. "His accent, his pacing, the pitch and timbre of his voice, the _way_ he spoke… his grammar, his idioms… I've heard you speak too many times not to know them. But that wasn't all of it. He stood the way you do, even held his gun the same way. He was almost as close to me as you are now, and I saw his eyes plainly, through the holes in his mask—they were just the color of yours, and until I met you, I'd never seen anyone with quite that shade of blue. When he got the box open and saw what was in it, he laughed, and it was like your laugh, that deep, soft chuckle. _That_ was why I fainted, you see. Because after the coach went on, I kept thinking it all over, trying not to wonder, to lose faith in you… Jess, who could he be?"

Jess felt a shiver pass over his shoulders as he remembered what he'd said to Mort. _There's dreams that's true… dreams that come __before__ somethin' happens… _ His had come before Daisy ever encountered this holdup artist. Neither of them could have known what was going to happen. "I reckon I know," he said softly.

He felt a strange, disorienting combination of bewilderment, exultation, and fear. If it really was Johnny, he had to find him, had to get his brother back in his life, find out how he'd survived… and maybe not Johnny only: maybe Francie was still alive too, and if she was, Johnny would be the one to know. _Maybe I do still got some of my family… __my family from Wind Vane, that is…_

And yet—if it was Johnny, if he'd gone outlaw, what then? These last four years Jess had turned his life around; he hadn't quite been able to give up all his old habits, the reflexes drilled into him by the profession he'd followed, but he'd consciously given up "the trade," as he called it; he was solidly on the side of right now—not just right as he saw it, but right as people like Slim and Mary and Mort saw it… most of the time, anyhow. Could he betray his friend and the family that had taken him in? If he did, how could he stay with them, even if they never knew what he'd done? But at the same time, how could he leave them? And how could he turn Johnny in? Always it had been Harpers against the world—and he was still a Harper, even though he'd also become, like Jonesy or Mike, an honorary Sherman.

Why would Johnny have taken the outlaw trail, anyhow? Jess was his big brother and should have taught him better. He _had_ taught him better, and so had their pa. Meddling with anything that belonged to someone else, even a sibling, had been one of the things that could always earn a young Harper a strapping—and there hadn't been a lot of things that did.

_That don't matter so much, _Jess thought, _as that he done it. So what happens now? I'm still head of the family as near as I know… he's my responsibility…_

What should he do? What _could_ he do?

"Jess, dear… I'm sorry… I shouldn't have said anything…"

"No," he cut her off. "No, you done right, it's just… I got to ponder on this."

"Who is he, Jess?" she insisted.

"He's the Amarillo Kid, or at least that's the name he goes by." Jess took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "But his real name's Johnny—John Jordan—Harper. He's my kid brother."

**SR**


	3. Chapter 3

He made her promise not to tell anyone else what she knew, escorted her to the door of her bedroom, and went back—everyone else had turned in by now—to set the bar on the front door before he quietly eased the bunkroom door open and stood still a moment on the threshold, listening. Jonesy was snoring softly on the far side of the room; past the half-wall where the wash shelf was Jess could see the shapes of the two boys—Andy on top, Mike on the bottom—in the double bunk, each a slight, lumpy shape under his quilt, like a miniature mountain range. To his left stood the two single beds that belonged to himself and Slim, the nearer one opened and waiting for him, the farther already occupied by Slim's big form.

Jess moved carefully across to the chair beside the chiffonier, avoiding all the boards that creaked, and sat down to draw the bootjack to him. He peeled out of vest and shirt, skinned off his jeans, hung his clothes on the chairback, padded over to the bed in his sock feet and slid into it, pulled up the quilt and lay there, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling and listening to the thoughts whirling around in his head. Even now, sure as he was that he'd been right in his guess about the road-agent's identity, he couldn't decide what to do about it. He knew what he _wanted_ to do, but after that?

"What's wrong?" asked a soft voice to his left.

He flinched. "What makes you figure somethin' is?"

"Because we've slept in these two beds for two years," Slim reminded him, "and I know your habits. Most nights you're asleep almost as soon as your head hits the pillow. Seems like after three days on a posse you'd drop off right away—and you haven't. I always know when you're asleep; you roll onto your left side."

"Dang," said Jess, "didn't reckon I was that predictable."

"Only to the people who know you best. You haven't answered the question."

Jess said nothing for a minute or two, just breathed in and out deeply. He trusted Slim—didn't he? Sure he did. Slim was the best friend he had in the world, his partner, his brother, the man who'd talked him back from the edge of death, closer to him than anybody except maybe Andy, with whom his relationship was unique and had been from the beginning… _Johnny_, he thought again, remembering his first sight of the boy and how, for a disoriented moment, he had thought he was looking at his sibling once more…

"Jess?"

He bit air, swallowed, struggling with himself_. You trust him. If you ask him not to tell, he won't, you know he won't…_

_Only you can't. You can't force him to choose between you and his principles. You can't do that to him._

_Johnny, why'd you have to push me into this?_

'_Course it ain't your fault. How'd you ever know about them, about what they are to me?_

_But you're my brother, my blood. I can't let you go on like you are. I found a new life, you deserve as much…_

"Jess!" Slim hissed.

He sat up. "I got to go."

"Go?" Slim echoed. "Go where?"

"I know where them two are hidin'," said Jess.

"I thought you said they'd probably left the country." Slim pushed up on one elbow, watching as Jess threw off the quilt and crossed back to the chair for his clothes.

"Maybe so," Jess admitted. "Maybe not. I got to find out."

**SR**

It was after the bandit pattern to sleep with one eye and both ears open, and to get up and prowl around at any hour of the night. They were always uneasy, suspicious, watchful; some would shoot at a shadow, or a whisper of strange sound. And in the still air of the mountains by night, sound travels well, especially when it comes from a point below you. Johnny Harper and Leonardo both woke at almost the same instant, reaching for their guns.

"Came from down yonder," said Johnny after a moment, and rolled to his feet to make his cautious way through the pine timber that crowded close to the stage road on either side. They had placed themselves about a hundred yards to the south of it, making a cold camp; the walls of the little valley below them served to force sounds up in their direction.

They squirmed up to the edge of the break where the ridge fell off in a steep, bare slope, gazing down at the dark shapes of the ranch buildings. "Barn door's open," Johnny murmured.

"_Si,"_ Leonardo agreed. "_¿Y por qué a tal hora? _[and why at such an hour?]"

"I got a notion I know," said Johnny, and they waited and watched.

After about ten minutes a man led a horse out through those open doors—a saddled horse, not as dark as the one Johnny's brother had been riding when they'd first seen him, and with a broad white blaze down the length of its face. In the moonlight they could make out the silver cockles on the man's hatband_. "Su hermano?" _Nardo guessed.

"I'd bet on it," said Johnny grimly.

The man was just settling into his saddle when the watchers heard a soft whistle and saw his head jerk around, toward the house. Out from under the sheltering roof of the porch a second man came, a tall man with a long stride, wearing a light-colored short jacket with the collar turned up, and a hat of almost the same shade as the horse. A rifle swung from one hand, and there was a sack and a pair of saddlebags over his shoulder.

"_Quien—?"_

"Dunno. Let's watch."

Down in the ranch yard Jess glared furiously at his best friend from the saddle of his secondary horse, the blue roan Andy had named Pegasus. Traveller at ten was just at his prime, but he'd just had three long days of use, and Jess had decided to let him rest. "What the flamin' perdition do you think you're doin'?"

"Going with you," said Slim simply. He walked over to the corral, flipped back the weighted tarp that covered his saddle, took down his rope, dropped the saddlebags and sack at his feet and moved to open the gate. Alamo, his chestnut, dozing on the far side of the pen, woke up and pricked his ears, nostrils widening to check the man's scent.

"You ain't doin' no such of a thing!" Jess snapped, the effect of the words considerably diminished by the fact that he didn't dare shout, which was what he wanted to do.

Slim paused at the gate and looked back at him. "How do you think you can stop me?" he asked mildly.

Jess seethed. It was far too true. Even though there was a good moon—it had just gone gibbous—he knew that once he left the stage road, if he left it, he wouldn't dare go too fast, not till after sunrise. He might be able to get some distance once he reached the top of the ridge, but even doing that would take a while; by the time he got to the level and could let Trav out, Slim would have Alamo tacked up and could follow him by sound.

"It ain't no business of yours!" he insisted, watching as the loop whirled once and flew out to settle over Alamo's lifted head. Slim was a good roper, actually the better of the two of them; it was he who'd taken on the task of teaching Mike the skill.

"You're my partner," Slim pointed out. "Your business _is_ my business." He drew the horse to him, led him through the opening, swung the gate shut.

"This ain't!"

"This stage station is, and anything connected to it," Slim replied, his voice still even. "You said you were going after those two road-agents. How do you think that's not my business—or Pa's either, come to that?"

"I—" Jess began, and bit his tongue. _How come he can always talk me around? Should'a' waited till he fell asleep… only he wouldn't, not knowin' I hadn't… dang, if he ain't the stubbornest man outside us Harpers that I ever met up with…_

Up on the ridge, Johnny and Leonardo watched as the tall man slung a saddle onto the back of the horse he'd just roped, bent to draw the cinches up, then left the animal tied by the lariat to head for the barn. "They're goin' out together," said Johnny. "Jess don't like it, I can tell by the way he sits, but he knows there ain't nothin' he can do about it."

"So what do _we _do?" Nardo inquired.

"Get the horses ready," Johnny replied, drawing back away from the break.

**SR**

**Laramie, the next morning:**

Mort Corey didn't ordinarily go into the office on Sundays, but today he felt an uncharacteristic urgency to do exactly that. It was about ten that morning when he unlocked the door, pulled up the shades on the front windows, and crossed the room to build up the fire in the potbellied stove. Once he had it going to his satisfaction and a pot of coffee started, he stood a moment thinking, pondering his next move. He'd stopped at the hotel and asked after Holloway, only to be told—as he'd half expected—that the man had checked out the morning after his arrival. Before that, on his way down from his house, he'd called at Mr. Reece's place, reported the results (or lack of same) of his posse's expedition, and inquired whether Holloway had taken a coach out; he hadn't.

He knew about the currency-transfer robbery, had learned of it from the deputy he'd left covering the office, when he tracked the man down to let him know he was back. Reece had asked what he planned to do about it. "There's not a lot I _can_ do, Mr. Reece," he'd said. "First of all, my best possemen just came back from a three-day chase; they're tired, their horses are tired, they've got their own affairs to catch up with. Second, whoever these robbers are, they know how to hide their sign; even Jess wasn't sure he was still on it, toward the end." He saw that hit the agent; Reece knew Jess's reputation. "And third, if they picked up $30,000 from this last job, on top of everything else they've made in these parts, they've got enough to hold them for three or four years—or even retire, if they want to; I don't think we'll be seeing any more of them. They're probably on their way out of the country by now—and I've got no jurisdiction beyond the county line, as you're well aware. Your best bet, or the express company's, would be to ramp up that reward you're offering, maybe add a finder's fee for any recovered loot—ten per cent's the standard."

On the basis of the list of denominations Reece had given him, along with what he knew of the pair's previous strikes, he figured that if they split their loot evenly, each of them would have around twenty pounds of gold dust and between eighteen and twenty-five of currency to carry, besides their guns and gear. Given a couple of strong horses—for that matter it was entirely possible they'd had spares hidden out somewhere—and leisure to move quietly out of the area, it wasn't much, and if they felt they were being pressed, or even just wanted to spare their mounts, they could cache some or all of it; with the almost nonexistent descriptions he had, even if he disseminated them, the odds would be against anyone being able to connect them to the robberies, in this county or out of it, there being no substantive evidence to prove their guilt. _No, if we ever do lay our hands on them, it's gonna be just blind luck…_

That reminded him of the earlier holdup, and he remembered what Jess had said: _If__ his name's Holloway, which I doubt…_

_I think you're right, Jess. But right now I've got an itch of curiosity about that maybe-brother of yours…_

Twenty minutes later he had satisfied himself that, if there were any wanted dodgers out on "the Amarillo Kid," or on anyone named Harper, they weren't in his files. _Maybe send out some telegrams?_ he asked himself. _Wish Jess had said where this youngster was the last time he had any word of him…_

_No, that can wait. I trust Jess's hunches—a lawman operates about half on instinct, and he's got the right ones for the job… but Holloway's more important right now. We __know__ he was here, and we know he lied about how Mose was hurt. That suggests he had something to hide._

There were no dodgers under the name "Holloway" either, but he found one for "Henry, alias Hank, Hardison." He sat back in his swivel chair and studied it carefully. _Yep, that's him. No wonder he gave us a fake name_. Hardison was wanted on a fugitive warrant, for having broken out of the Missouri State Penitentiary, and there was a $250 reward for his recapture—not much, but to a sheriff, whose salary seldom exceeded $150 per month, attractive. The flyer was a good one, with a minutely detailed description, as you might expect from a prison, where they'd gotten plenty of chance to look at the subject closely. Mort glanced toward his filing cabinet. _I wonder…_

It didn't take him long to find the other dodgers, half a dozen of them—five train holdups, one bank robbery. It was all suspicion, but there were definitely a number of people—mostly express companies and railroads, which, owing to their size and power, could get away with putting out Dead-or-Alives on people not yet indicted by the Grand Jury—interested in having serious talks with Hardison, his two brothers, and a gang estimated at four or five other men, identities unknown. And these rewards were serious stuff. Each poster offered between two and five thousand for the capture of the perpetrators, plus in several cases a finder's fee for any recovered loot.

_I wonder…_ Mort thought again. No one had been with Hardison on the stage, and according to Mose the passenger manifest that day had shown him to have boarded at South Pass City. Now why would a fugitive have gone up there?

Maybe to scout the place? It was getting past its prime, by all reports, but gold was gold.

Which might mean that the rest of the gang probably was, or had been, somewhere in these parts, waiting for its young boss to get back from his expedition.

_I think I'll ask around,_ Mort decided. Tucking a couple of the posters into his vest, he left the office.

He didn't bother to look up-street toward Dennison's livery barn and the belt of evergreen timber that screened the town off from the ranch country along the east road. Even if he had, the market wagon just vanishing into the trees, behind a sorrel and a bay, wouldn't have meant anything to him.

**SR**

**The high country:**

Midmorning found Jess and Slim well up into the high summer ranges, making their way steadily higher, toward the peaks and the rim. Jess, in the lead, had hardly spoken a word since they'd left the ranch yard. Slim didn't try to push. Jess would talk when he was ready.

On the other hand…

"Jess? Did you ever hear of a man named Ben McKittrick?"

Diverted, Jess looked around. "McKittrick? Sure. He's in the same business as I am—_was_, I mean. They say he's good with a gun." That was his code-phrase for men who were not only quick on the draw and hit what they aimed at, but had a strict personal code and lived by it. "How come you to ask?"

"Pa was going to," Slim told him, "but he couldn't find a chance, with Ma and Daisy around all evening. Did you and McKittrick ever cross paths?"

"No," said Jess thoughtfully, "can't say as we ever done. I heard of him, like I said, and I reckon he's heard of me. Most men in the trade know each others' reps, anyhow." He tilted one eloquent eyebrow at his friend. "What's it got to do with Matt?"

"It goes back to the second day you were out," Slim explained. "I wasn't home—Andy and I were out on the range. But Pa told me about it later. McKittrick came through in a market wagon, heading for Laramie. Pa recognized the name and said so, and McKittrick said he'd gotten out of prison recently, and decided to quit the business. Had a wife with him. Pa was wondering if you or he had any reason to feel any grudge against each other."

"Not that I know of," Jess replied firmly. "Dad-gum, I been out of touch for sure. Knew he'd been sent to Huntsville—couple years back, that was, I reckon—but I hadn't heard he'd got out. Or got himself hitched, neither."

"Well, it probably doesn't matter, then," Slim decided. "Even if he heard in Laramie that you were in these parts, if you're right he'd have no reason to come back and make trouble for you."

"Where was he headed, he say?"

"No," Slim admitted, "just that he was thinking of going into horses. That reminds me," he added, "where are _we_ headed?"

Jess's face shut down again. "You'll see when we get there," was all he said.

**SR**

They worked their way higher, gradually leaving the bunches of slowly grazing cattle behind them, the country widening out below like a panorama. They dipped down into a draw, waded a branch, and started up the opposite slope through some aspen timber, which eventually was bisected by a small stream. Jess crossed the creek and went on; Slim followed without comment, looking around him, wondering why this particular stretch seemed familiar. Had he been up this way hunting recently? There was game sign, muleys and elk and bear, besides mustangs.

The trail they were following—not a human trail, but game, and well used—forked, and Jess took the right-hand branch, which began to climb through scattered pine foothill timber until it brought them to an open ridge. Here Jess checked, and Slim hipped around in his saddle, gazing back the way they'd come. Below, to the west and south, lay the wide expanse of the Basin, divided by the Laramie River. Burkharts' place to the south was hidden by the enfolding hills, but he could see Reed McCaskey's headquarters to the west and beyond it, and almost out of sight his own family's land against the first pitch of the mountains. He could make out the stage road far below, and paused to pull out his watch and check the time. The noon stage must have gone by while they were in among the trees.

Suddenly it came to him. "This is where you lost those two, isn't it?"

Jess nodded. "We'd _been_ losin' 'em the last fifteen miles or better. But this is where we give up and decided to go on home."

"So what are we doing here now?" Slim persisted.

Jess shrugged. "Like I said. I know where they're at. Or leastways I know where they been."

Slim looked around at the pattern of the peaks, the line of the rim ahead of them—and he knew. "Bannister's old hideout," he said quietly. _That _was why this stretch looked familiar to him. He'd been the one to come up and collect the Shefflins' plundered family silver from the cabin Bannister and his cellmate had taken over.

"Yeah."

Slim tipped his head curiously. "If you think they're up there… why didn't you take the posse all the way to it?"

"Didn't think they was, I reckon. Not then. Sign didn't show it." He frowned, his eyes sweeping a half-circle ahead of them, then looked back, resting his weight on his left stirrup. "Still don't show it. Wonder if they found them some other way out of there?"

"You said they'd probably left the country," Slim reminded him, repeating what he'd said in the bunkroom last night. "If they have, what good does it do us to go where they're not?"

Jess looked around at him, his cobalt eyes haunted. "Don't ask me that, pard. Not yet." The tone of his voice was more sad than angry.

"Jess…?"

"You'll see, come the time," was all Jess said. "Let's ride."

**SR**

"He ain't stoppin' this time," said Johnny Harper softly. "He's goin' on."

"To the cabin, _tu crees_ [do you think]?" Nardo asked. "But why? If he thought all along that we were there, why not lead the posse to it, instead of waiting until he has only one other man to help him?"

"I dunno," Johnny admitted. "But I got a notion it's time we rode on ahead and got ready for 'em."

**SR**

**Just above the town of Granby, Colorado Territory, about the same time:**

When outlaws agreed on a "meet," they were, by and large, careful to get there on time: the bandit business ran on schedules. Still, Jack, Hank, and Boone had reached the agreed-upon rendezvous point too late in the afternoon to do much but stake their horses out and get something to eat. Luke, the oldest of the trio, had auburn hair and a hint of a limp when he was tired; unlike his brothers, his eyes were blue, clear as glass and nearly as cold—the kind that were called "killer's eyes" in the West. He also tanned in the sun, where they never did, only burning more or less painfully. With him were Chess Goodweather, who was a distant cousin of the trio, and Orion Trescott, who'd been a near neighbor when they lived in Missouri. They'd been there for half a day and were ready to report on what they'd found out, which was that the Amarillo Kid, or someone remarkably like him, had been active around Denver last year; there was still a dodger out on him, but no reports of any holdups by him since early fall.

"By what we know," Hank said, "he's up in the Laramie Basin now. And I've got a notion he may stay there a while yet, so we don't have to be in any special hurry. I'll tell you what I'm thinking in the morning; that was a long rough ride, and I've been on stagecoaches the last ten days before it."

"You're gettin' soft, kid," growled Luke.

"Not in the head, big brother," Hank replied mildly. "Don't ever think it." He had none of the older man's occasional tendency to bluster; he didn't say much, but when he did it was in quiet tones and to the point. Whether he was any better with a gun than Luke was had never been ascertained.

Now, rested and with breakfast under his belt, Hank was recounting what he knew about the Amarillo Kid's activities in the Laramie Basin, with particular reference to their actual encounter on the road. "He didn't know you?" Chess asked.

"Why would he?" Hank replied. "We didn't exchange names, and we'd never met before. I don't know if he even knows Ren had any connection to us."

Luke frowned. "What makes you figure he'll stay on in those parts? You said he'd picked up maybe twenty grand since he'd been workin' that country. That's more than we got off that North Platte train, and there's only two of them to split it, not six or seven. They could take a break now."

"They could, but I don't figure they will. I think the Kid's got a source working for the stage line."

He saw them thinking that over. Every town had at least one insider who played ball with the long riders, taking his profits from their enterprises in return for such useful information as he could supply. Sometimes there were more than one, either within the town limits or scattered out around the district—informants, providers of supplies, fresh horses, medical care at need, receivers of stolen goods, fences who bought hot money at fifty cents on the dollar and sent it to some other state or territory where it could be safely put into circulation. The custom was particularly widespread along the Middle Border, where practically everyone not already rich was likely to be somehow connected to the outlaw element, but it existed just about everywhere to some degree.

"You said somethin' like that before," Boone Shelby recalled. "Who do you think it is?"

"You remember the descriptions we got of the Kid in Cheyenne," Hank said— "his height, his coloring, how he dresses and walks, things like that. Well, when that stage I was on was robbed, the next station we hit—the last one out of Laramie—had a feller at it that could have fit those descriptions to inside maybe ninety points out of a hundred; the main differences were that he didn't dress the same way and he was three or four years older, an inch or two taller and some little bit heavier. Same build, though, same coloring, same Texas accent. His name was Jess Harper."

"I've heard of a Jess Harper," Orion mused. "He used to have quite a name as a fast gun. Worked in Texas, Colorado, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Montana… just about all over. But about four years back he dropped out of sight."

"This is the same one," Hank told him. "I asked around a little—everybody knows he's fast, some of 'em are a little proud of it. But he's not for hire any more, except sometimes to the stage line or the local sheriff's office. He's partners with the two men that run that relay station—it's a small cow-ranch too; old-timer named Sherman and his grown-up son. He's gone respectable." He grinned slyly. "At least, that's what folks seem to think. Maybe the Shermans are in on it too, maybe they're not. But I'd be willing to bet that Harper and the Kid are kin somehow, and that's why the Kid's been doing so well at his holdups around Laramie. Harper's feeding him information."

Orion's eyebrows rose. "You reckon? Way I heard it, the man's death on long riders. I even heard some rumor he killed Frank Bannister back a spell."

"I heard that too, and it's no rumor," Hank agreed, "but it was a personal thing—Bannister's gang burned his family out, just before the war, down in Texas. It doesn't mean he'd balk at helping a relative—brother or cousin, probably—who'd decided to go after the easy money. Might even make it likelier. Family's family."

They all nodded thoughtfully; it was a concept they could understand. "What's it got to do with us settling the score for Ren?" Jack asked.

"If Harper _is_ the Kid's local source," Hank pointed out, "he's got to have a way of getting in touch with him, right? So all we need is to find out how we can put pressure on Harper, and we should be able to force him to either give the Kid up to us or let us know how to find him." He smiled. "You've got to agree it'll be a lot easier than riding all over the Laramie Basin hoping to stumble across the man."

Boone and Chess traded glances and nodded eagerly. Jack, though no genius, was grinning. Luke saw he was outvoted, and he also realized that Hank had made several very good points. "How would you figure to do it?" he asked.

"First thing we need," Hank began, smoothing the ground in front of him with the palm of his hand, "is to decide where we'll hole up. By now that sheriff in Laramie knows I didn't tell him quite everything the way it happened, so I've got to keep out of his sight, but that doesn't mean the rest of you have to. Now let me draw you a picture of the way the station's set up. We'll need to keep a man or two on watch, get a notion of who lives there, who's vulnerable, what the routines are…" Orion passed him a stick and he began sketching deftly in the dirt. "It's snuggled right up to the long spur of the mountain, which is mostly east of it, so. It's a good high ridge with lots of pine timber—not a place they're likely to go looking for stovewood…" Even long-dead, dried hearts of pine were full of pitch, a resinous sap that made an intense fire: too many pine knots in the stove would burn down a cabin. "It should make a good lookout—high enough to give a good view, sheltered enough so nobody's likely to catch sight of us, and with a way out where we won't be seen coming or going—"

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch, ****about noon:**

It was Matt Sherman who'd found the hastily dashed-off note tucked under the lid of the coffeepot when he got up at five to build the fire in the kitchen stove:

_Dear family,_

_Jess has some kind of bee in his bonnet about those two road-agents, and he's bound he'll go after them, so I'd better go too. I've got what's left of his posse supplies, which should hold the two of us for a couple of days. I don't see how they can be any farther away than that, from what he told us._

_Love, Slim_

Matt grinned to himself and shook his head. _Them two boys, _he thought. _Sometimes it seems like Slim is finally rubbin' off on Jess, tamin' some of his worst wildness—and then somethin' like this happens and I wonder who's changin' who. Reckon if I __wasn't __gray already, they'd turn me that way._ But in fact he was tremendously proud of both of them—Jess for sticking to his guns, Slim for standing by his friend. When he thought of how they'd been with each other a short four years ago, it was amazing how each had grown and changed, and mostly for the better. Matt never felt any concern, any more, for what would become of his land and stock, Mary and Daisy, Jonesy, the two younger boys, once he was gone. Slim and Jess would take care of things.

Sunday at Sherman Ranch was, by custom, a day of rest and relaxation. Mary believed in it because she was—or tried to be—a Christian; Matt believed in it because it seemed self-evident to him that ceaseless work, seven days a week, month in and month out, would kill a man off before his time. He often cited the custom of many emigrant-train wagonmasters of not travelling on that day because it had been found that the regular break got you where you were going quicker in the end, and with your people and livestock in better condition.

Generally they didn't go into Laramie to church: twelve miles there and back, after just making the same trip the previous day, seemed excessive. Daisy liked the idea of going, but she was still fresh, or nearly so, from a small Pennsylvania town where she could _walk_ to services. Mary, on the other hand, reasoned that if God made the world, surely any place in it was suitable for His worship. And where was it written that people really _needed_ a preacher? If you could pray on your own, surely you could create a ritual of worship the same way.

They always had a good breakfast, with buckwheat cakes, ham or steak or perhaps chicken, and Jonesy's special oat porridge topped with each diner's choice of honey, maple syrup, cinamon, brown sugar, chopped nuts, grated apples, or fresh berries in season. Then they'd have family worship: Matt or Mary or both would read from the Bible (he favored the "fightin' parts," like Samson, David and Goliath, or Joshua before Jericho, where she leaned to New Testament stories), Jonesy would play his piano for hymns, and each member of the family would say a personal prayer (it could be "private," meaning silent) of thanks or petition, followed by a communal one spoken by Matt and the Lord's by Mary. There were chores—primarily the milking, and feeding the stock and the "critters"—but anything that could be done ahead, like splitting firewood, was. For the most part the day was for "things we don't make our livin' at," as Matt said. It was a day for the women to do fancywork rather than everyday mending; for the men, perhaps, to go up to the lake and get in some fishing or a swim or both ("Fishing ain't work," Matt declared— "it's your _bait_ that does the work"). It was a day for catching up with the magazines and national papers they subscribed to, for reading silently or aloud, for writing letters, playing horseshoes or board games or the kinds of card games that ladies could take part in, telling stories, and teaching new skills—playing chess, tooling leather, braiding rawhide or horsehair, whittling ítems useful or frivolous; for planning menus for the week ahead, deciding on what work needed to be done and who would do it, making new Christmas trims at holiday time. If there were any hired hands on the place, they got the day off to go hunting or fishing or loaf around the headquarters patching gear or clothes, boiling out laundry, cleaning guns and boots, trimming and shoeing the feet of the horses in their strings, braiding in rawhide and horsehair, scanning any reading matter that came within reach, hunting up a king snake and a rattler so they could watch the ensuing fight, playing checkers or dominoes, cribbage or mumblety-peg, or whatever card game their mates would consent to. Then there was always a special Sunday dinner at two o'clock, a lighter supper about seven, and often, in the evening, a family "sing," with Jonesy at the piano and Andy and Mary on guitar to provide the accompaniment.

Matt and Andy had gone out on the porch to get out from underfoot while Jonesy and the women started preparations for dinner, and were playing checkers there when a market wagon hove into sight on the divide and came rattling down the slope toward the yard. Matt noticed the horses first, a bay and a sorrel, then the size and build of the man driving, and the fact that there was a woman on the seat alongside him. _McKittrick and his wife? Now what'd they be doin' back here? _he wondered. "Stay where you're at, son," he told Andy, and went forward to meet them.

The former gunfighter pulled his team up directly before the porch and took off his hat. "Mr. Sherman," he said politely.

"Mr. McKittrick… ma'am," Matt acknowledged. "Didn't rightly expect to be seein' you again."

"To tell the truth, we hadn't expected to be back," McKittrick admitted. "Why we are is kind of a long story, but first—you've got two partners, we hear, your son and a Texan name of Jess Harper. Would that be true?"

"Ye-e-es," Matt agreed slowly, drawing the word out, knowing that Andy would recognize the warning. "Have you got business with one of 'em?" _It'll be Jess,_ he was thinking. _Doggone, I was afraid of this. Just 'cause a man gives up his old line don't mean he forgets debts and grudges left over from it…_

It was the woman who answered; he noticed that she was wearing a blue summer cashmere that flattered the color of her hair and emphasized the warm pink of her cheeks. "Jess is my brother, Mr. Sherman."

"What?!" yelped Andy in astonishment.

Matt stared at her. "I thought you said you was lookin' for a brother named Jordan."

"I'm lookin' for a brother who _calls_ himself Jordan," she said. "But his real name's Harper, like Jess—like me, before I married Ben. We'd have asked before, but we didn't know Jess was livin' here till we got into town and Ben began circulatin' around."

"Then you _are_ his Francie," Matt said, and extended his hand to help her down. "Get on down, the both of you—any kin of Jess's is welcome in this house. I'm sorry to say he ain't at home, but you'll stay till he gets back—he shouldn't be more'n a couple of days, we'll find some way to fit you in even if your husband has to sleep in the bunkhouse…"

**SR**

**The high country:**

After pausing at the crest of the ridge to let their horses blow and rest, Slim and Jess dropped down the other side of it, moving at a jog until they came to another creek, which ran out of a wide-mouthed canyon. Jess checked, gazing up it with an unreadable expression. "What makes you think they're up there?" Slim asked him.

Jess took so long answering that Slim wasn't sure he was going to; he seemed to be struggling inwardly, a phenomenon to which Slim had become accustomed during their years together. "'Cause if it wasn't that Bannister used that cabin," he said slowly at last, "it's the kind of place I'd'a' favored, in their situation."

Slim frowned in puzzlement. He could understand why Jess would be reluctant to return to a hideout he knew had been used by the man who'd ordered the murder of more than half his family, but what did his own preferences have to do with the matter? "I'm not sure I understand," the older man admitted.

Again he saw that sad, haunted air as Jess looked back toward him. "You'll know soon enough." He gave Pegasus a touch with the spurs, and the bay walked forward easily, following the course of the creek. Alamo fell in behind; Slim could see how the ground rose as they advanced, could feel the chestnut's muscles working under him.

_This is why I didn't want you to come,_ Jess was thinking up ahead. _It ain't "them," exactly, that'd favor this kind of hideout. It's Johnny. I know that, though I couldn't tell you how I know. I didn't want you to know about him, not yet, not till I could talk to him…_

A little tongue of timber angled across their path, flowing out of a side-canyon. Slim remembered this too. He reached down to flip the bucking thong off the hammer of his Colt and gently move the gun up and down in the leather. Jess, to his surprise, didn't trouble to do the same. _What's __going __on here that I don't know about?_ Slim wondered. _What aren't you __telling __me, pard?_

After about a hundred yards the timber thinned, and Jess slowed, then stopped. "Better we go on afoot from here," he said.

They found a place to tie the horses, and moved on quietly. Abruptly the woods opened out, the trees ending as if they'd been cut off with a hoe. Here the canyon ran up to the scarp that formed the mountain face, and at the end of that open space, almost under the lift of the rock, was the old trapper's cabin that Bannister had used as a hideout. Slim hadn't seen it in nearly four years; he could see that the roof, which back then had already fallen in on one side, was even more buckled than it had been—that would be the weight of several winters' snows, probably—but like Bannister, someone had contrived a remedy, and recently: the aspen poles that had been lain across the gap had been thatched over with new pine boughs, their needles still green and thick. A missing window on the east side had been partly covered with a length of tarpaulin—that was new since Slim had been here last. The door was still gone, but the chimney was mostly in one piece.

And the place was not only occupied, it was inhabited, which wasn't always the same thing. Two horses had been pegged out to graze on the lush grass: nearer, a big black with good legs, a white sock on the right fore, a white stocking on the right rear; about twenty feet beyond it, a linebacked buckskin. "They're here," said Jess quietly.

"How do you know?" Slim demanded, being careful to keep his voice down. "Nobody's seen those road-agents' horses yet, that I've heard of."

"It's them," was all Jess said. He was squatting on one heel just within the shelter of the ruffle of undergrowth that had sprung up at the edge of the trees, where the sun was stronger and so more congenial, but his right knee was down straight, to make it easier for him to draw. There was a note almost of hopelessness in the two words, and Slim wondered again what was going on beneath the surface.

"There," he said suddenly. "Like as not them tracks I found back at the ridge was from when they first come up here, lookin' for a spot to hide out. But now I see how they got down out of here without leavin' a clear trail. See it? This here's just about a box canyon, but if you look real hard you can spot it—there's a trail down off the rim too, a steep one. Like a ridge runnin' down. Just what outlaws'd favor; lets 'em keep the high ground and watch for followers without much chance of bein' spotted themselves."

Slim did indeed see it, but the presence of the horses made it plain that there had to be people around too. Maybe if Jess hadn't been so focused on what was in front of his eyes and whatever it was making him think about, he'd have realized they weren't alone. Slim suddenly noticed that the birds close by had quit fluttering and singing, and in the cathedral hush so typical of the high mountain meadows he heard the faintest rustle of something small—maybe a field mouse, maybe a rabbit—doubling back as it ran into the watcher. The skin under his shirt prickled. "Jess…"

A loud metallic clash, a jingle of metal. "Don't move, _Señores,"_ said a gentle, oddly-accented voice behind them.

Jess started to swing around, and out of the side of his eye Slim saw the rifle butt come down, smashing against the back of his friend's neck. The Texan went down without a sound.

"_Jess!"_ Reflexively Slim made a move to go to the fallen man.

The barrel of the rifle interposed. _"No seas tonto_ [don't be a fool], _Señor._ First you take your _pistola_ out of the holster—gently, with two fingers only—and reach back to lay it on the grass. Then you can put your _compañero_ across your shoulder and carry him to the cabin." A soft chuckle. "You are a big man, it should be easy…"

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch:**

"But how is it that you—and Johnny—are still alive?" Mary Sherman asked. "Jess believes you died in a cholera epidemic in Brownsville, in 1862."

"We almost might have," Francie McKittrick agreed, "if it hadn't been for chance. You see, when we left Amarillo in April, Mrs. Brady was in the family way—her seventh, it was. She went into labor earlier than she'd expected, and it was a hard birth—the doctor told her there'd be no more children afterward, though the baby was born alive and healthy—a little boy, Virgil, they called him. We had to stay over for three weeks in San Antonio while she got her strength back. We heard about the cholera bein' in Brownsville, but by the time Mrs. Brady was ready to move on, it had run its course. There were five hundred fatal cases of it inside ten days…" She trailed off a moment. "It's a good 275 miles from Santone to Brownsville; took us near a month by wagon. So the sickness was gone when we got there."

Matt nodded thoughtfully. "Cholera's like that. Spreads fast, kills fast, but seems to give some immunity once you've had it. Reckon it died off after a spell, couldn't batten on nobody new."

"And Jess doesn't know?" Andy demanded. "How couldn't he?"

"We didn't any of us know where he was, Andy," Francie explained. "We'd heard that he was partnered up with Dixie Howard, but he didn't write, so we couldn't be sure where to get in touch with him, to tell him we'd moved—all we could do was leave word in Amarillo and hope somebody stayed on there long enough for him to get it."

"So supposin' he knew you'd planned to go to Brownsville," Jonesy mused, "and supposin' he found out there'd been cholera there, a body can understand why he'd have thought you'd got caught up in it… but didn't the place empty out some after the war ended? Jess always told us that everybody down there was broke, the first year or two, till the cattle drives started bringin' in good money; there can't have been much traffic in and out, much in the way of work. It's always easier to find someone in a smaller town. He went there, lookin' for you. Why didn't he find you?"

"Because we moved again, to Galveston, after the Confederacy retook it," said Francie, "and I guess that word he never got; like you say, a lot of folks left Brownsville once there was no more need for Texas traffic to go in and out on neutral ships through a neutral port. Anyone who knew where we'd meant to go must have been among those."

"He'll be so glad to know he was wrong," said Mary. "He doesn't speak of you very much—he doesn't like to be reminded of the loss, I guess—but from the little bit he's told us, we know he was… fond of you."

"We'll have to break it to him careful," Jonesy observed, "or the boy's like to have heart failure or somethin'. You'll need to keep out of sight when he first gets in, Miss Francie."

"That may not be true, Nathaniel," Daisy put in slowly. She had been listening without comment to the conversation, studying the two guests, measuring them by criteria of her own. Now she addressed Francie. "You said you were looking for your brother Johnny when you first came from Cheyenne?"

"Yes'm. We knew he'd sent me a bank draft from there, so we were able to trace him that far, and we—well, we heard a rumor he'd gone over the mountains, headin' this way."

Daisy hesitated, struggling with her ethics. She had promised Jess not to tell, but this was his sister and Johnny's. If Jess succeeded in finding the youngest of the surviving siblings… Francie should be prepared for it, and for the possibility that Johnny would have to go to jail. "He did," she said after a moment. "He held up the stagecoach I was on, two days ago."

To Daisy's surprise—and everyone else's—neither of the McKittricks seemed taken aback by this news. "It's about what we thought, Miss Daisy," Ben said quietly. "Francie's suspected it for a while; it's why we left Texas to begin with, lookin' for him."

Matt's voice overran him. "How'd you know it was Jess's brother, Daisy? The others all said he was wearin' that duster and hood, same as always."

"The others didn't know Jess's voice as I do," Daisy replied, "or the way he stands, or his laugh, or the color of his eyes. I told him last night what I'd noticed, and he guessed right away who it was. I think—I don't know how, but I feel sure—that he already suspected…"

"That's why he took off," said Matt grimly. "Like Slim wrote us, he had a bee in his bonnet—well, a brother turned road-agent would sure put one in mine."

**SR**

**The cabin:**

They had been about an hour and a quarter in the old hideout, by Slim's best estimate, when Jess stirred and groaned softly. "Jess?" Slim shuffled around on his knees to lean over his reviving friend. "Jess, can you hear me?"

"Huh… Slim?" The deep-blue eyes blinked open slowly, still fogged with pain and confusion. "What… what hit me?"

"Rifle butt to the top of your spine," Slim told him. "Jonesy says there's a big knot of nerves just there, a ganglion, he calls it. He says if you hit a man there, you put him out for an hour or more, and no risk of concussion. You've probably got a bruise, but you'll be okay. Just take it a little easy and get yourself oriented."

Jess slowly turned his head, his eyes tracking around the single room of the cabin; Slim could see him recognizing it, remembering the scene from four years ago. Then he looked up at his friend again and realized that Slim's hands had been trussed behind his back, his gunbelt removed. He checked automatically for his own, found it gone too, then pushed up cautiously, finding himself not similarly restrained, and frowned in wary puzzlement. "How come they tied you and not me, pard?"

Slim shrugged. "Search me. Maybe you should ask _him."_ He nodded sideways, toward the fireplace.

Jess's eyes shuttled that way. Their captor was sitting on the low stone shelf that served as a hearth, just like the one that fronted their own fireplace at the ranch, casually smoking a thin cornhusk _cigarillo_. He was, Slim guessed, in his late twenties, with distinctly irregular features, an upturned nose and vivid blue eyes, a wide mouth, square chin, and the deep Celtic lines from nose- to mouth-corners, teamed with a light olive skin and Indian-black hair with a definite curl in it—and a fierce mustache and Vandyke that matched; Slim had heard that men of Hispanic descent grew facial hair to show their Spanish blood before Indians, who could seldom raise any. And Hispanic he almost certainly was, at least in part, to judge by his dress: a dark blue Mexican suit with a short jacket and bell-bottomed trousers slit at the ankles to reveal the boot-tops and white linen beneath, trim of silver braid and _conchas_, a red sash; a white shirt with fancy, colorful embroidery on either side of the placket, square-toed boots with lower heels than most Anglos preferred, and great jingling spurs of silver and gunmetal, worth probably a good $17.50. His fawn-colored felt _sombrero_, with its colorful band, several-inch-high crown, and floppy brim, hung down his back by a thong, showing the kerchief tied over his head beneath. There was a garter around his right leg holding a knife scabbard, a bone-handled machete on the back of his belt, and two open-toed holsters riveted swivel-fashion to the latter, each holding a Remington six-shooter with ornate Tiffany grips and nickel-plated metalware; with this rig he could bring his hand down to the butt of either gun, tilting it up and thumbing the hammer back simultaneously, with no need to draw, which could make a big difference in a close-quarters fight. He held his rifle—the one he'd clubbed Jess with—casually across his knees; Slim had recognized it earlier as a Spencer .56 carbine, which was why he hadn't attempted any resistance—setting aside its considerable range, that kind of gun could have blown a hole clean through him.

His vivid eyes lit with amusement as he saw that Jess was conscious and sitting up. "So. You're with us again, eh, _Señor_ Harper?"

"How'd you know my name?" Jess demanded, his voice rough.

The Mexican (if he was) grinned. "You'll see," he said, and stood up, circling around them to walk over to the doorless entrance and give the loud, grating _kak-kak-kak_ call of a Cooper's hawk in mating season. Then he backed away from the opening as a jingle of spurs heralded someone's approach, otherwise silently, across the lush meadow grass.

Wanting an opportunity to get a look at their other captor—whom he hadn't yet seen, though of course he knew, by the presence of the two horses, that there was another man holed up here—Slim awkwardly pushed himself around on one hip, and froze in dumb astonishment as the fellow came through the doorway, paused, and stepped all the way in, his attention on Jess. Which was hardly surprising in itself, because except for a difference of a couple of inches in height and fifteen or twenty pounds in weight, the two of them might almost have been twins. The newcomer was a lean, wiry, yet deep-chested lath of a fellow, with Jess's same matte-black wavy hair and cobalt-blue eyes, his same lean, angular face, with the same starved-out hollows showing beneath the high carven cheekbones that Jess had had before he began filling up on Mary's and Jonesy's (and later Daisy's) good cooking, a jaw tapering to a stubborn square tip, a thin nose prominent in profile, black eyebrows with a distinct and unusual quirk in them. His stance and movements were a surprising hybrid of youthful gawkiness and unconscious catlike grace.

From the waist up he was dressed in range fashion—a blue-checked shirt, black leather vest with silver _conchas_ instead of buttons, a dark blue silk bandanna tied as Jess did it, with the side knot and loose drape—but his tight tan trousers flared at the bottom over a red velvet triangle inset with green and scarlet embroidery down the seams. A green silk sash—considered both lucky and very fashionable by cowboys—was wound around his lean waist, and over it was a belt with more silver _conchas_ decorated with intricate engraved traceries. A black-metalled sixgun with a bone handle hung at his side, at almost the exact height and angle at which Jess was accustomed to carry his. Down his back on a buckskin-thong jaw strap swung a low-crowned dove-gray "plainsman" hat with an Indian-beaded band, and highly-polished brass spurs twinkled at the heels of his black cowboy boots.

Slim had been there the day Mose brought the news of Frank Bannister's escape from prison, and he remembered how Jess had lost every bit of his color and looked about ready to faint. Now he saw that same reaction again, but it was tempered by a kind of disbelieving joy, and there was a softness in his eyes that Slim had only seen when he dealt with Andy and Mike, Mary and Daisy. The angular planes of his face seemed to relax, and Slim got a hint, for almost the first time, of what he must have looked like when he was fourteen or so, before the tragedy that had forced him out into a world he was emotionally ill-equipped to deal with.

Slowly, not shifting his attention from the new arrival, Jess climbed to his feet and stood facing his semi-image, his expression a combination of shock and delight, relief and a kind of resignation. "Johnny," he whispered, his voice hoarse with astonishment. _"Johnny_. I thought—maybe—but I didn't—I—how—?"

_Johnny_, Slim thought. _His brother? The brother he's thought died of cholera? My Lord… no wonder he looks almost like he'd been poleaxed. And yet… and yet it's somehow as if he was expecting it too…_

_Is that what he meant, when he said I'd "know soon enough"?_

_And… those trousers…_

_Jess was right, these are the road-agents… and one of them is his brother…_

Johnny had stepped all the way into the cabin now; he was standing no more than six feet from Jess, eyeing him in silence, his face as unreadable as Slim had ever seen Jess's over a poker table. Given the cast of the light, Slim couldn't be entirely sure, but it seemed to him that there was a definite flush on the younger Harper's cheeks. The Mexican had quietly withdrawn into the corner by the fireplace, as if to give the pair some space. Jess stood without moving, perhaps partly out of sheer prudence and partly out of amazement and uncertainty. "Johnny," he said again. "You gotta know it's me—how else did your friend there know my name?"

"Oh, yeah." The voice was almost the same too, a warm gravelly baritone—a subtle lightness, which would perhaps have been obscured by the fabric of his hood, the only noticeable difference. "Yeah, I know."

Jess's head tilted just a bit, his brows pulling together in confusion; clearly he'd expected, or perhaps rather only hoped for, some greater degree of emotion at this reunion he'd been somehow anticipating. "Johnny?"

Johnny suddenly took one long step forward, his right arm flashed out in a sweeping backhand, and there was a resounding crack as flesh met flesh. Jess, totally unprepared for the blow, stumbled back, tripped over Slim's extended foot, and sat down hard; his hand went tentatively to the broken skin at the corner of his mouth, he stared a moment at the blood on his fingers, then looked up at the younger man who seemed, despite his lesser dimensions, to tower over him. "If you wasn't my brother," said Johnny, his voice gone cold and flat, "I'd shoot you here and now."

That was apparently the very last thing Jess had expected to hear. "Look, Johnny, I know you been holdin' up them stagecoaches, but that ain't—"

"Ain't got nothin' to do with stagecoaches." The icy young voice cut across the older man's. "This here is about me and you and a promise. It ain't been all so long ago, only fourteen years…!" An angry thickening of those last three words. "We made us a bargain, Jess. We promised each other somethin' and we shook hands on it. And you—you—" he stammered to a halt as if he could hardly control his tongue, paused and took a deep breath, and went on: "You said you was plumb sure you could count on me to keep my end of the deal—why didn't you? _Why didn't you never come back for me, like you promised me you would?"_

Jess went dead white again, his face blank with shock—and something more, comprehension, realization, something almost like horror.

"_I tell you what," Jess proposed. "When you're as old as me—when you're fifteen—Francie'll be close on twenty, and likely married up. She'll have a husband to look after her then, same's Miz Brady does. She won't need you to do it no more. Then you can come with me. But first you got to get a gun and learn to use it, just like I done. One of them new 1859 Model New Haven Navies, the kind that carries ten shots, that costs eighteen dollars. .36-caliber bullets for it is a dollar-twenty for a hundred__, __and if you salvage your brass and lead and reload your empties, __best-grade powder's forty cents a pound, __primer heads a penny each. __Gunbelt with a holster is two, maybe two and a half dollars. If you was to take twenty-four summer coyote pelts, six bits each one, you could buy a Navy of your own. Take a deer hide now and again, they're four bits up to a dollar, you could do it faster. Then you go to work helpin' the blacksmith, that's good for four bits a day, so's you can buy your own __bullets. Then __you could practice, same as I done when I was your age. You promise me—you give me your word for it—that you'll do that, and I'll come back when you're fifteen and we'll go together. You'll need a horse and an outfit, but I'll see to that."_

_Johnny took a deep breath and dragged his sleeve across his face, his young features firming as he recognized the responsibility his hero-brother was offering him. "I'll do it, Jess. I give you my word."_

"I waited, Jess. I waited a year, two years—I reckoned maybe you'd gone to the war, like Milt and Gil done, but even after it was over you didn't come. There'd'a' had to been somebody left in Amarillo that could'a' told you where we'd gone—but you never come!" His eyes were bright with passion—or, Slim wondered, was it only that?—and his voice raw and thick with barely controlled fury and the tears of rage and perceived betrayal that he wouldn't permit himself to shed.

"I kept on waitin'—near nine months after we got word of Lee surrenderin'—I waited—but everybody come home as could, even Gil—and I got to thinkin' maybe you was killed, like Milt—so I come to reckon it was my job to take over for you, to find Bannister and kill him, like you'd said you was gonna do. But then—then—I heard you was alive after all—a gun for hire—_you broke your word, Jess!_ You knew I hadta be waitin'—and you didn't come—you just went on your way, forgettin' all about me, about Francie, about the deal we made—no, not a deal, a _promise,_ Jess, a sacred _promise_, our _word_ to each other, our _handshake_ on it—"

"Johnny!" Jess broke into the younger man's rant. "Johnny, no—no—I didn't—"

But Johnny was past listening. "You didn't give a flyin' cactus fig for nothin' nor nobody but _you!_ At least _I _done what you told me to! _I _been takin' care of Francie! _I_ sent her money—_you_ never done! Big gunfighter, rakin' in all that _dinero,_ couldn't spare none of it for her or me..."

"Johnny, no!" Jess shouted. "It wasn't like that a bit! Johnny, _listen to me!_ I thought you was dead!"

The word _dead_ rang in the room like the stroke of a fire bell. It cut Johnny off in mid-sentence, hit him like a bucketful of cold water in the face. "You thought—?" His voice was suddenly hushed; he stared at his brother, bewildered and perplexed. "No, that—that can't be. Miz Brady, Francie—they left word in Amarillo, and again in Brownsville, where we'd gone—"

"I got the word in Amarillo," Jess agreed. "I went through there summer of '65, it was, and I followed you to Brownsville—but—Johnny, I heard the cholera took you there, both of you!" His voice became tight and choked as his throat closed up and the resolutely held-back tears thickened it. "I heard—I—I talked to a woman who said she nursed you—said she watched you die!"

Johnny shook his head slowly. "It wasn't me. The cholera'd gone on 'fore we ever even got there. Somebody should'a' told you the truth—"

"I looked for the Bradys," Jess interrupted, "to ask them if it was true—I couldn't find 'em, couldn't find nobody that knew the name—"

"But we went to Galveston, Jess! We was in Galveston when the war ended!" Johnny protested.

"_I_ didn't know that! You ask Slim Sherman here—you ask him if I didn't tell him and his folks, years ago, that you and Francie was both— Johnny, I swear to you on my life—"

Never before in memory had Slim seen his friend so passionate, so desperate for his word to be accepted. He decided it was time for him to speak up. "It's the truth, Johnny. He told us that, almost when he first came to live with us. Johnny, he's never stopped missing you, grieving for you—_loving _you—" He looked from one Harper mirror-image to the other. "I've got a kid brother too, and I think I know how Jess has felt all these years, because I know how _I_ would have felt, if I came home from years away and was told _Andy_ had died—" To the younger man's brow-kinked puzzlement, he added, _"Think, _Johnny—what reason would _I_ have to lie to you?"

Slowly, Johnny admitted, "I… I reckon none…" And then, almost before Slim could register the too-bright glitter of his eyes, the too-deep flush darkening his cheeks, his knees unlocked and he collapsed without a sound.

"_Johnny!"_ Jess screamed, a raw sound of disbelief and sheer terror. He scrambled across the puncheon floor on his knees, lifted his brother's shoulders, turned him face-up, cradling him against his own chest. "Johnny… no… I can't—I can't find you and lose you again—I won't—" His shaking hand groped at Johnny's throat for the pulse, as he'd seen Mary Sherman do. "Slim, he's burnin' up!"

Awkwardly because of his bound hands, Slim scuffled over to join the younger man. The Mexican, after a stunned instant, appeared on Jess's other side, talking to the unconscious Johnny in frantic Spanish: "Juanito—_Madre de Dios, ayudame—_ _Tejano tonto, terco e inflexible__, ¿por qué __no me dijiste__que no te sentías__bien_ [you foolish, stubborn, unbending Texan, why didn't you tell me you weren't feeling well]?"

"What's wrong with him?" Jess demanded fiercely.

"It's his arm—the left—ah, that _puerco_, that _perro_, I'll kill him—"

"Holloway!" Jess gritted, fumbling in his vest for his pocketknife and ripping his brother's sleeve open. Under a bandage with ominous red-brown stains speckling it, the flesh was swollen and an unhealthy red. When Jess tentatively touched it, Johnny moaned and flinched away, though he didn't rouse. "Slim, we gotta get him to Jonesy and Aunt Daisy, fast as we can—_you!_ Cut my partner loose, _muy pronto, comprende?"_

Johnny's companion hesitated only half a heartbeat before pulling the knife out of the sheath gartered to his leg. "Turn your back, _Señor, por favor—"_

Slim twisted around and felt the knife snap down between his wrists and his bonds pull apart. "I'll get Pegasus and Alamo—what, Jess, travois?"

He could see Jess thinking with frantic speed. "No. We're up on the mountain, remember. A drag, gettin' down from here, with the time to make it, it could take till past dark to get him home—he might not last—I'll hold him in front of my saddle, like Matt done me that one time, you can lift him up to me…" He looked to the Mexican. "Is the bullet still in him?"

"No. It was _una herida superficial _[a flesh wound]. I cleaned it with whiskey, but I couldn't change the dressing last night—he's been outside, pacing, waiting for you to be conscious, thinking of all the things he wanted to say to you—the movement, the emotions, must have made the fever worse— _A__ donde lo llevas_ [where do you take him]?"

"Our place. Twelve, maybe fifteen miles down the mountain. We got a couple folks there that know all about wounds."

"Then wait only until I saddle our horses. I come with you." Jess hesitated visibly, and he added, "I must. He's my _compañero_. We—as you say in Texas—we've travelled some together."

Slim saw comprehension dawn in his partner's eyes. "Jess?"

"It's a sayin' we got, down where I come from," Jess explained. "Means he's saved Johnny's life or Johnny's saved his or both—and won't neither one talk about it." To the Mexican: "Yeah, I reckon you do got to—and I'm beholden to you, if it was you done the savin'. Slim, help him saddle up, will ya?"

_Well,_ Slim found himself thinking out of nowhere, _I've wondered sometimes whether any other Harpers are as hardheaded as Jess is—or as inclined to fevers—guess now I know at least one who is_. He followed the Mexican to the corner where two saddles lay, gave him a moment to scoop up his own low-cantled, flat-horned hull and a simple headstall bridle with a spade bit and heavily silver-inlaid cheeks, and reached down for a JW Jenkins custom saddle stitched with Texas Lone Stars and studded with brass nailheads. "Which is his horse?" he asked.

"Topper—_el negro_. He's gentle enough, if he sees you respect him."

**SR**

**Sherman Ranch, about six P.M.:**

Though Slim and Jess weren't there for Sunday dinner, the McKittricks had allowed themselves to be permitted to take the vacant seats at the table. But they still insisted on doing their share of the evening chores; Ben was filling in for the absent Slim and Jess, helping Matt and Jonesy with the stock, while Andy and Mike got the poultry locked into their house and the cows into the barn and saw to the goats and calves and the younger boy's "critters." Mike had just carried an armload of firewood into the kitchen, where Mary, Francie, and Daisy were settling into a rhythm, figuring out how best to do their tasks in the rather limited available space, and was crossing back to the barn when he sighted the knot of horses coming down the stage road from the mountain spur. Even in the shifting light—the sun, which was almost exactly behind him, would set around half-past seven, according to the kitchen almanac—he could make out Alamo's blaze and the smooth solid nose-to-rump gray-blue coat and black mane and tail of Jess's Pegasus, Slim's tall figure, the silver cockles on the band of Jess's shoved-back Stetson, and in the center of the procession the man in the big hat, riding a buckskin horse and leading a black. And then he saw that there were two men on Pegasus's back, not just one, with Jess perched behind the cantle holding the other one in place by an arm across his chest. _"Uncle Matt! Jonesy! Andy!"_ he shrieked, bolting for the barn. "Slim'n'Jess're back, and they've fetched in two strangers!"

All three of the elders, Ben McKittrick included, popped out the big door like so many cuckoos out of a clock. The kitchen door flew open too, and the women hurried out to cluster together with hands shielding eyes; Andy came around the barn from the side yard. Ben and Matt moved to meet the new arrivals as Slim swung out, spurred Alamo into a fast trot, and came on ahead. He noticed the stranger and hesitated just an instant, but then saw that Ben wasn't wearing a gun and decided to get the details later. "Pa, you won't believe this—I couldn't, at first—we've found Jess's brother Johnny, and he's hurt, feverish. We need to get him inside—"

"Mary!" Matt hollered. "Run open Daisy's bed, we got a man here needs tendin'. Jonesy, get your satchel. Ben, you come help me…"

Francie and Daisy stood where they were, caught between a need to see for themselves whether it was really Johnny and the awareness that the men needed space to work. Jess drew Pegasus to a halt and Slim came to stand alongside the roan and hold it steady while Jess eased his brother down into Matt's and Ben's waiting arms. "Matt… everybody… I wasn't reckonin' on it gettin' dropped on you like this…"

Matt grunted. "We ain't the only ones gonna get somethin' dropped on 'em, I reckon. Ben, you take his legs…"

Daisy hurried a few steps ahead. "Jess? Is it really—?"

He nodded, but the smile he gave her was tight and sad. "Yeah, it is, Aunt Daisy. And this here's his partner—ain't sure I got his name—" The buckskin's rider had dismounted and come to stand beside Slim, where he could watch as Matt and Ben got Johnny out of the saddle.

The Mexican looked around, registering the two figures in skirts, and swept off his hat in a courtly gesture. "Leonardo Secondido Ignacio Francisco O'Regan y Nariño—_tu sierva, señoras_ [your servant, ladies]."

"O'Regan?" exclaimed Daisy, momentarily diverted. Then, as Ben and Matt moved past her and she got a look at the stained bandage on the arm draped across their burden's middle, she became all practicality. "I'll get some things together and be right in. Mr. O'Regan, don't worry, we'll do everything we can for him—if he's Jess's brother, he's part of this family."

Andy had pulled Mike back out of the way, though the younger boy strained against his stronger grip, eager to see Jess's brother close up—and, with the natural bloodthirstiness of all small children, to see just how he was hurt. "Hold still, Mike," he hissed, "and don't get yourself underfoot—you know better, or you should by now."

Jess started to follow the procession, then stopped, frowning in puzzlement, as he consciously realized there was another woman present, one whose cinnamon-brown hair was quite distinct from Mary's dark glossy hue. Confused at first by the sun in his eyes, he reflexively removed his hat— "Ma'am?"

"Jess," she said in a trembling voice. "Oh, Jess… Jess, it's me, it's Francie!"

He barely got his arms up in time to receive her as she flew to him, sobbing. Slim watched from beside Pegasus's head in astonished bemusement. _Looks like a regular Harper family reunion,_ he thought, _but how in the blue-eyed world…?_

_No, wait, Johnny said __something __about __sending __Francie money—don't be dense, Sherman, of course that meant she had to be alive! But how'd she ever find Jess here, and what made her set off __looking __after all this time?_

The two boys had crossed the yard to join him. "Slim?" Andy ventured. "Is that really…?"

"It is," Slim agreed. "And is that who I think it is?"

"His sister. Her and her husband—Mr. McKittrick—they got here this noon. They were looking for Johnny… they didn't even know about Jess the first time they were here…"

Slim looked to his partner, who was hanging onto his sister in a mutual death grip, his shoulders shuddering. "I think we'd better leave 'em alone a few minutes," he decided. "Come on, Andy, Mike, help me with these horses…"

**SR**

It took some time to get everything straight, and to save repetition it had to wait until Daisy and Jonesy finished opening and draining the abscess that had developed as the flesh closed over the graze, burned the infection out of the bullet-gashed arm with turpentine and whiskey, smeared it generously with purple cone-plant paste, dressed it in a clean bandage, and left him warmly covered in Daisy's twenty-one-dollar white iron bedstead, the door of the little back bedroom ajar by six inches or so to allow them to hear if he became agitated or delirious. "I think we got it in time," Jonesy reported— "the wound don't seem to've gone bad on him yet, though it might've if he'd let it go another day. I figure we'll save him and his arm both, though if he's anything like Jess he's got a hard pull ahead of him."

"Nathaniel and Mary and Francie and I can take turns sitting with him," Daisy added. "Now, what are we going to do about… well, sleeping arrangements?"

"Maybe _Señor_ O'Regan here could join me in the bunkhouse," Ben suggested.

Matt nodded. "That'll work if it's okay with him."

"It is your house, _Señor _Sherman, and your word is the law," Leonardo replied. "But it must be understood—I must take my turn caring for Juanito."

"That's as well," said Mary before her husband could comment. "With five of us it will be that much easier to keep up with the house chores—and there'll be more of those to do, with three guests and a sick man to think about."

"Six," growled Jess. "Mary, he's my brother…"

She nodded. "Six, of course. I should have thought. Now, Matt can sleep in the bunkroom, the way he did when Mose was here, though we'll have to put down a pallet on the floor, and there's room in our bed for one more woman… but there are two of them. Now what…?"

"How about this, Ma?" Slim offered. "You work it out, the six of you, so one of you ladies is on duty at night, ten till six, and then when she goes off in the morning she can take the empty bed."

Mary figured mentally. "That would leave a turn of just under three hours and a quarter for each of the rest. And we can rotate who takes the night duty, if necessary. That's a good idea, Slim."

Her older son nodded. "Okay, then. Andy and I'll take some blankets and such out to the bunkhouse later, after we eat. Now, who's gonna tell Jess and me what's been going on here while we've been up the mountain?"

Jess had claimed a seat on the tufted leather couch under the front window, with Francie alongside him and Ben on her other side, and Mike and Andy on the floor at his feet. "I'm thinkin' maybe it should be Francie," he suggested, his cobalt eyes lingering on his sister like a starving man's on food. "Bein' as she was always good at storytellin', back when… well, before… you-all know. And that way maybe she can work in how she come to be in Wyomin' to begin with, her and Ben." He looked across his sister's lap at his fellow former gunfighter. "If anybody'd told me somethin' like this was gonna happen—not just Francie bein' here, but bein' married to you—well, I'm just as glad nobody done, 'cause I'd like as not've called him a dirty liar. Ben, I don't know as I've said yet—welcome to the family. It ain't much of one no more, but it's still both ours."

"It's a bigger one than you think, Jess," Francie told him. "I still write to Sophie. She and Jim—" Jim Lambright, who had courted and won their older sister some sixteen years earlier— "moved to northern Arizona during the war, in '64, it was. They've got a ranch there, in a valley north of the Mogollon Rim, and six children now—one died a couple of years ago, or there'd be seven."

Momentarily diverted from the question of Johnny's condition and prognosis by this news, Jess's face lit with astonishment and joy. "Six? She only had Hank back when I left—you mean Johnny and me—we're _six _times uncles? Does he know?"

"He knows about the three oldest ones, Hank and Tom and Cora," Francie agreed. "I haven't heard anything from him except bank drafts since he left Galveston, I've had no sure way to contact him and let him know…" Her voice faded and she reached into her sleeve for a handkerchief with a tatting lace border, sniffling and dabbing at her eyes. "He doesn't even know he might have had _seven_ nieces and nephews, not six. I had Ben's baby nine months after we were married… and lost her almost a year ago now."

"Aww…" Jess ducked his head. "Francie, I'm sorry—I wouldn't ever'a' wanted…"

"It wasn't your fault. You couldn't know. Gil told us he saw you once, across a camp in Virginia, but by the time he got through the crowd you'd gone."

"Johnny said somethin' about Milt and Gil signin' up?" Jess asked.

"Yes, almost as soon as the news reached Amarillo," his sister told him. "Milt was reported missing in '62… it was at Kernstown, during the Valley campaign. Gil was in the same unit, but he didn't know what became of his brother…"

"_He_ made it home, I'm guessin'," said Jess.

Francie hesitated. "Yes, in July. He—" She hesitated, looking to her husband a moment, then: "You might as well know now as any other time—Johnny killed him."

"He done what?" Jess exclaimed. "When? Why?"

She told him what she knew, and he listened without comment, his face closing off. "Francie, I'm sorry," he said when she'd finished. "Maybe if I hadn't'a' told him to learn to use a gun—"

"—Don't," she interrupted. "He'd have probably learned anyway, he was so determined to help you find Bannister. I didn't love Gil, Jess, not really, but he was someone I knew—almost the only boy I knew well who wasn't kin—and he was so charmin' when he wanted to be, and insistent…" She changed the subject. "Ben heard that you killed Bannister at last?"

He nodded. "Right out in that yard yonder. Four years gone, it's been. Ten years it took me, Francie, but I kept my promise." A painful pause. "Wisht I could'a' kept th'other one, the one I made to Johnny..."

"That wasn't your fault either," she insisted. "It was the war, that's all. It could have happened to anyone. I 'spect it did happen, or somethin' like it, to more than just us. Jess, what matters is we've found one another again."

"I reckon that's so," he said slowly, but Slim saw the shadow at the back of his eyes and knew what he had to be thinking—that Johnny was an outlaw, a stagecoach robber, with probably several thousand illegitimate dollars in his baggage at this very moment.

"You gonna tell the boy how you and Ben got together, Miss Francie?" Jonesy asked from his favorite ladderback straight chair beside the fireplace.

"I've got to admit," said Matt, "I'm curious about that one myself. That's if you don't mind none, of course, ma'am."

She smiled shyly. "I don't mind—why should I mind? You've all been family to Jess since he came here—no, I can see it; you've got as much right to know as anyone…"

She told how the Bradys had pulled out for New Mexico a few months after Gil's death, and how she'd stayed on in Galveston and gotten work, hoping always to hear something from Johnny—"I knew he wasn't likely to write on his own account, but I hoped maybe he'd find someone he'd trust enough to set the words down for him"—until the diphtheria came to town in the winter of 1870. It was one of the chief killers of children, but those raised on farms and ranches seemed to often escape the ordinary childhood diseases, to judge by the remarkable rate at which they had mowed down young soldiers during the war who suddenly found themselves thrown into contact with more people than they had probably ever seen before: it was in the towns and villages that contagion was likeliest to run rampant. Thus Francie, who had never been exposed, began one day to complain of headache and lethargy; her eyes became dull and her face drawn, her breathing difficult, and her tonsils red and mottled. Next day came high fever, difficulty in swallowing, and a painful swelling and inflammation of the throat. Soon her air passages were heavily coated with a fibrous yellow-white membrane, and she suffered severe pain, a persistent cough, and as the membrane thickened, increasingly labored breathing. Treatment consisted largely of swabbing the throat, every four hours, with twenty grains of nitrate of silver in an ounce of water, into which a sponge, attached to a whalebone, had been dipped. Like many fevers, that of diphtheria could bring on hallucinations and trigger bizarre behavior, and death resulted from suffocation as the membrane thickened, or from strain on a system overtaxed by the symptoms, usually within a few days, sometimes only twelve hours among infants.

"It was only Ben bein' there, stuck in the city by the quarantine, that saved me," she said. "I reckon the doctors did the best they could, but there I was with no kin, nobody to insist on them treatin' me, or to take over carin' for me when they couldn't. Ben figured two folks who had nobody were better off together than apart, and he nursed me, swabbed my throat like they showed him, pinned me down when I started thrashin'. I was lucky; the sickness could've weakened my heart, and that could've killed me, sooner or later. It did leave me paralyzed for a time…" Jess lost several shades of color— "but Ben stayed on and took care of me, worked with me, taught me how to walk again. And in the end that was why the law caught up with him, for killin' the four Keefer brothers."

"I heard about that," said Jess thoughtfully. "There was plenty that reckoned it was a—Slim, what's that big word?—a mis…?"

"Miscarriage of justice?" his partner prompted.

"That's the one." Jess looked to his newfound brother-in-law. "How was it they put you in jail at all?"

Ben shrugged. "They'd just come off a feud with the outfit next door. If it'd been one of the other family, they'd'a' settled it themselves, like as not, but I was an outsider—they couldn't know who might come after them if they took me down. The Keefers were killed off, but they had friends and shirttail kin that raised a powerful stink, and influence too. But I got lucky. I had a smart lawyer and a practical judge, and they worked somethin' out that made the Keefers' friends feel satisfied."

"We'd been married just two days when he was taken," Francie added. "So of course when they hauled him back to McLennan County, I took my trunk and my savings and went too, left word with the post office to send Johnny's drafts on after me, and when Ben was sentenced to Huntsville I followed him, got a job and a room in the town and visited him as often as I could."

"And it was just a little bit before I was due to get out," Ben continued, "that she figured out what Johnny was up to, and where. No, it's okay, Jess—Matt and the others know already."

Slim saw the air sigh out of Jess's chest. "That makes it some easier, I reckon. Though if he lives it's still gonna be somethin' to settle…"

"And speaking of settling," said Mary Sherman firmly, "we all ought to settle down and get something to eat. After all, Jess, you'll have time yet to visit…"

**SR**

Slim stepped out onto the porch and paused, sweeping the yard with his eyes, watching in the moonlight for a familiar shape. A light glowed dimly from the window of the bunkhouse, where Ben and Leonardo were quartered; behind him in the sitting room Jonesy was covering the fire. Daisy was sitting with Johnny in the back bedroom, and Mary and Francie were in Matt and Mary's, getting ready for bed. Mike had been asleep for over an hour; Matt and Andy were preparing to join him.

He located Jess about where he'd thought he might, leaning on the bars of the home pasture with Traveller and Pegasus and his black mare Skylark clustered on the other side, finding his comfort in equine company as he so often did when he was seriously troubled. Slim stepped down off the porch and crossed the open space slowly, making sure his boots crunched audibly against the packed earth; Jess still had a way of startling severely when approached too quietly.

The Texan looked back over his shoulder, satisfied himself as to who was there, and waited while Slim came up to him. "Hey, hardcase."

"Hey yourself." Slim laid a light, cautious hand on his friend's shoulder. "You didn't eat much. You okay?"

Jess said nothing for a minute, then: "Ain't plumb sure. Like Matt said, had a lot of stuff dumped on me today."

"These last twenty-odd hours have to've been rough on you," Slim guessed.

Another hesitation. "Some. But then there was findin' Johnny, makin' him understand the truth about why I never come for him, findin' Francie, learnin' about Ben—that was… it was valuable to me. To know that I ain't a—" His lips suddenly clamped shut.

"That you're not alone any more?" Slim prompted.

"_No,"_ said Jess. "That ain't what I meant. I ain't been alone these four years. Not no more. You, Matt and Mary, Andy, Jonesy, Mike, Aunt Daisy… I—I can't tell you what it's meant to me, to have you all in my life. You been the family I lost, the one I'd needed…" He trailed off into an uneasy silence.

"But now you've found your real family," said Slim.

"Don't you go puttin' words in my mouth!" Jess snapped. "They ain't no more real than you all, and you ain't no less real than them. It's just… they're blood, and they—they went through somethin' with me that you ain't. And I thank God you ain't, too," he added.

"Jess…"

"No, Slim. Don't—_please,_ don't say it."

That word _please_ stopped him. Jess didn't use it very much, least of all with the household. "How'd you know what I was about to say?"

"'Cause you're my pard," Jess replied simply. "Like Leonardo's Johnny's. He had a good notion what Johnny wanted to say to me, didn't he? Same with me and you."

They were both silent for a minute, thinking about that. Then Slim ventured, "Jess, all we want is for you to be happy. You know that, don't you? That's what people want when they really care about someone else; his welfare, his contentment, matter to them as much as their own—maybe more. Of course we'd rather you could be happy here, with us. We've gotten… used to you, even when you're at your Texas-tornado worst. But if—"

"I ain't said nothin' about leavin'," Jess pointed out quickly.

"You've thought about it." It wasn't a question.

Silence. "Sure. I'd be a liar if I said I hadn't, and not a man if I hadn't done it. But, Slim, there ain't no point me countin' chickens. Johnny… he might not make it, even yet."

"Jonesy thought he would."

"Jonesy ain't right _all_ the time," said Jess.

"Still."

"No," Jess insisted again. "This ain't the kind of choice a man wants to make without ponderin' on it a spell. How would I ever choose, Slim?" Suddenly there was a new note in his voice. "There's so much you done for me, so much I owe you for—a home, your trust, my life and more'n my life, half a dozen times or better—"

"And you've paid that debt with interest," Slim retorted. "Jess, when I think about that day you killed Bannister—if you hadn't been here, not one of us would have seen the sunset. _We're_ the ones who owe _you_. We've been paying on that ever since."

Jess didn't reply; it was as if he'd never really thought about it in quite those terms before. Slim let him mull it over, then said, "Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"Why didn't you tell me who you thought we were after? I could see you were troubled, upset, and now I know why. Did you think I wouldn't try to understand what you were doing?"

"How could you?" Jess replied, his voice hollow. "I didn't my own self. Slim, it ain't—it wasn't—that I didn't trust you. I always trust you. I just—I reckon—maybe—I was afraid. I didn't want you to think less of me 'cause of what Johnny'd been doin'."

"I would never have done that, Jess," Slim said quietly. "Johnny's doings, his choices, were _his_. Not yours."

"If I'd gone back—if I'd tried harder to find him—"

"Jess, you thought he was dead. Going from the evidence you had, it was a completely understandable thing for you to think. He realizes that. So does Francie. Neither one of them blames you, not even Johnny now. And none of it was your fault. Remember something you said to me once. 'Man don't need to apologize for things somebody else does.'" A pause, then: "I won't say what happened wasn't tragic, or that you shouldn't regret the lost time with them. But regret doesn't change anything. You've taught me that. You and Johnny, Francie and Ben, you have the whole rest of your lives ahead of you. You can make something new, something better, something that can heal the rifts time has left between you."

"Not and have you all too," said Jess, almost inaudibly.

"Maybe," Slim insisted. "Ben wants to go into horses. There's land to be had around here, and Mort's a decent, human kind of peace officer, you know that—he doesn't make trouble for a man trying to leave his past behind... you've made a good place for yourself in these parts, a respected name, and Ben could too—even Johnny."

"He's been stickin' up stagecoaches, Slim. Me and you and Matt, we contract for the stage line. Don't that make a difference?"

"Nobody's been hurt," Slim pointed out. "Everything he took was insured. The line itself didn't lose anything. Something could be worked out, Jess. Pa will hire a lawyer for him, all you have to do is ask. He might have to do a year or two, maybe in prison, maybe on probation—well, he could live with Ben and Francie, help out on their place… or here, if he'd rather be with you…"

"You reckon?" Jess's voice was hushed. "You reckon that could happen? For true?"

"I reckon we can try to _make_ it happen," said Slim. "And when the Sherman Ranch family decides to work together to make something happen, the rest of the world had better stand aside. Jess… there's always hope. Always. What you've found here should have made you see that." He gave his friend a minute to integrate the idea, then said: "Come on, it's getting late. Tomorrow's a working day, we need to get some sleep, you especially; you didn't get a bit of it last night, and neither did I—after the strain you've been under today, I'm surprised you're still functioning…"

"Yeah," Jess said softly. "I reckon."

**SR**

**Next day:**

The first and second stages had come and gone. Matt and Ben, the latter with his own saddle on a Sherman _remuda_ horse, had ridden out to do range work. Slim and Andy were looking after the used team, with Mike to fetch and carry; Jonesy was sitting with Johnny, Daisy was catching up on her sleep in Matt and Mary's bed, and Mary and Francie were in the kitchen, bonding over baking. Jess, still restless and worried, wandered aimlessly about the yard until he noticed Leonardo sitting in the sunny area bounded on the east by the barn, the north by the house, and the west by Mike's critter cages and the outdoor showers, with the tall board fence just behind blocking off the prevailing winds. He'd brought a Windsor chair out of the bunkhouse and was sitting in it with an empty packing crate upended in front of him, his twin Tiffany-grip guns lain out on top of it, one partly disassembled for cleaning. Being careful not to be too quiet about it, Jess slowly edged nearer for a closer look. Even concerned as he was for his brother, he'd been too long a professional not to notice and appreciate good firearms.

The Remington's trigger had been removed, its hammer spur sawed off, cut down, and rewelded in place halfway down the back of the hammer; Jess couldn't see the hammer spring, but he guessed it would have been filed with care. "Sliphammer, huh?" he said.

Leonardo slanted a look at him, eyes narrowed—the kind of look Jess knew well_. "Si."_

Jess nodded. "Kinda figured it, when I saw how them holsters of yours is riveted to the belt. Seems a lot of your folks favor that style." With no trigger—whether it was totally removed or just put out of commission—the mechanism was automatically pulled, and the gun would fire when you released the hammer, which gave you an edge in a fight. It took a lot of experience and practice to use a sliphammer gun effectively, but once you'd learned the technique of scraping the ball of your thumb fast over the lowered spur, you could fire three times faster than a man with a trigger—ten shots in about two seconds—and far more accurately than a fanner; with practice, aiming by feel as every good gunfighter did, you could blow the tar out of short-range targets. Dixie had told Jess about that, as he had so much else about guns. "You mind?" he added, nodding toward the sixgun that was still fully assembled.

"_Como desees_ [as you wish]," said Leonardo.

Jess reached down, wrapped his hand around the Remington's handle, and lifted it gently, turning it, then holding it out at arm's length, testing the balance, sighting down the barrel with the weapon pointed toward the tall stockade fence on the other side of the open space. "Good gun," he said. "Them Remingtons, they got a good feel. Had one myself once. Some Yank officer took it off me durin' the war." He carefully replaced the weapon as it had been. "You and Johnny… you been partners long?"

"_Cuatro __años__, casi_ [four years, almost]."

Jess bit air, wondering if the man was deliberately trying to be provoking. But in his years at Sherman Ranch, living permanently with first five, then seven other people, he'd had to train himself not to take offense at every little slight, and to keep a tighter rein on his explosive Harper temper. "Listen," he said slowly, "I know this here ain't nothin' of what you ever figured on. Wasn't for me, neither. Ain't still. Got a lot of ponderin' to do. Johnny too, like as not, if he makes it. But one thing you got to try to believe, is I ain't lookin' to take him from you. I got a partner too—you know that. Me and Slim, we been together about as long as you and Johnny, and I know what it'd feel like if somebody tried to break the two of us apart. So I wouldn't treat no other man that way." A deep breath. "I know you won't talk about which of you's done what for which. That's all right. But don't you see, he… he matters to both of us. And I reckon we both matter to him, now that he understands why I didn't come for him. So we all need to try to figure how we can find common ground. You ain't stupid or you wouldn't have lasted in this line. You see what I'm sayin'?"

Leonardo tipped his head down, the big _sombrero_ hiding his expression. Jess waited patiently. The secret to dealing with Mexicans, he knew, was to remember that they were a proud people. They had a habit of walling themselves off, very politely but very firmly, from all foreignors—even Catholic clergy not of their own nationality—and typically were formally honorable. But as they would let no personal insult stand unavenged, so they would let no personal kindness go unrequited. He hoped that the friendship between Leonardo and Johnny was of a kind that would allow Leonardo to look on kindness to Johnny—even family kindness—as if it had been extended to himself.

"He has told me about the family he came from," the _vaquero_ said presently, in English now. "You and himself, _Señora_ Francie, the three _chiquitos_ who died in the fire, the sister who lives now in Arizona, and two he doesn't remember, although he says you spoke of them." He looked up, asking silently for prompting.

"Ben and Jake," Jess agreed, nodding. "He wasn't but three when they left home."

"I also am of a large family," Leonardo proceeded. "Eight of us—four brothers, four sisters. In such a household, always there are… alliances." He paused, ordering his words. "I had not expected a Texan to trust a Mexican as quickly as he did me. It was _una sorpresa_ [a surprise] when he began to talk of the raid, of the promise you had made. You saw how it hurt him that you never came."

"About the trustin'," Jess said, "he was raised up same as me, and I always figured it that you ought to judge each man on what he's been and done since you've known him—not on account of what color he is. Black, brown, red, yellow, white, it don't matter. There's bad folks amongst all of 'em, and good ones too. As for th'other, he knows now why I didn't."

"I am… not sorry… for that. It's not a good thing for family to forget their bonds. And yet… even when he thought he hated you, he never ceased to remember you, the good times you had had, the many things you taught him. Many nights I've heard him, talking in his dreams, asking you why you forgot him. Always he has wanted to be 'like Jess.' Always I knew, if the rift could be healed, you would be first in his heart. How that could come about, I couldn't imagine—but I accepted that it might, and if it did, it would change what he had with me. I am only his _amigo_, his _compañero_. You're his brother."

"But he won't be forgettin' what you've been through together," Jess replied. "The line you been in, he can't. Like as not it's only havin' each other that's kept you alive and free this long. It don't have to be a choice between the two of us. Slim said some things last night that made me see that. We both care about him, and that ain't gonna stop just 'cause I'm back in his life and he's back in mine. It'll change; it'll have to. But it won't stop. Carin' don't, not when it's real." He hesitated, searching for words. "Mary—_Señora _Sherman—I recollect one time, not too long after I come here, I heard her talkin' to Andy. She said somethin' that made a lot of sense. 'It's a shame,' she said, 'that there ain't but one word for all the feelings we lump together as love. Love for your family, say, that's different from love for your friends, or your country, or your home, your pets, your favorite pie, or the person you marry and the children you have. All them different feelin's, and just one word to describe 'em by. It don't surprise me, Andy,' she said, 'that men don't often say that word.'" Pause. "Seems like to me, if all them feelin's are so different from each other, that there's room for all of 'em in any man's heart. Seems like don't none of 'em make it harder for him to feel th'other ones."

He could see the other man thinking this over. "She is _una mujer __muy sabia_ [a very wise woman], your _Señora _Sherman, I think," Leonardo decided at length.

"Wisest I've known, short of my own ma and Aunt Daisy," Jess agreed. "You reckon maybe we could hold what she said in mind?"

Leonardo considered the suggestion for a minute or two, then offered his hand. _"Si,"_ he said simply, and they shook, with the single pumping motion typical of Mexicans.

"_Jess!" _It was Andy's voice; the boy came pelting around the end of the barn. "Jess, there's a rider coming, and I think it's Sheriff Corey—we could see the sun flashing off his badge. Slim said you ought to know."

Jess and Leonardo traded glances. "Might be best you hole up in the bunkhouse till he goes," the Texan suggested. "We can explain Francie, maybe, but there ain't a whole lot of Mexicans in these parts."

"_Seguro_ [sure]," Leonardo agreed, and gathered up his guns and cleaning kit. Jess waited till he had disappeared inside, then took a deep breath, trying to school his face to unreadability, and trailed after Andy as the boy made his way back out to the yard.

**SR**

"'Morning, Slim," Mort Corey said evenly as he drew rein. "Jess—Andy."

"Mort." Being the oldest member of the partnership present, Slim automatically assumed the role of host. "Get down and rest yourself. I don't think there's anything left in the way of food, we just had a full coach go through, but we can offer you some coffee…" The way his eyes slid briefly toward the house told Jess that he too was thinking of Johnny in the little bedroom and Francie in the kitchen with Mary—and Daisy abed in the middle of the morning.

"No, thanks just the same, I won't be staying," Corey replied. "I'm on my way to the Lake spread, got some papers to deliver there. But it's on the way and I thought I'd stop. You remember what we talked about that night on the trail, Jess?"

"I reckon so," said Jess, a bit warily. "How come you to ask, Mort?"

"I checked the hotel when I got back to town," the sheriff replied. "Thought I might have a talk with Holloway if he was still there, not that I expected him to be. And he wasn't. I went sniffing through my files and found out he's not Holloway at all."

"_That_ don't surprise me," Jess grated. "Who is he, then?"

"His name's Hank Hardison. He's wanted for breaking out of the Missouri state pen, and he and a small gang, including two of his brothers, are suspected of holding up several trains between here and Council Bluffs, plus a bank in Grand Island."

"Huh," said Jess. "Wonder what fetched him out to these parts?"

"Maybe he's thinking about going into the stagecoach business," Corey suggested. "I doubt he'll have any competition from the two we were chasing. Did you know they got a currency transfer the morning of the day we turned back?"

"Yeah, I heard when I got home," Jess agreed. "Which means?"

"Which means they've picked up a nice stake, enough to take it easy for a while," said Corey. "They've probably left the country—I told Reece that. But here's where it gets interesting. Seems the Hardison gang was originally seven men, but one of 'em—fellow name of Ren Haythorn, some kind of kin of Hardison's from what I found out—got himself killed over in Cheyenne a couple of months ago. He beat up a woman, and a man took offense at it and shot him in the gut. And the shooter named himself to the law as the Amarillo Kid."

Jess hesitated a moment, not quite sure how best to react. "The same one I…?" he ventured.

"Probably. I messaged Ives's office. He was out of town at the time of the killing, but he got a description from his assistant—a young fellow you wouldn't know, Jess, he only signed on in April. Anyway, according to Ives—I just got a response from him before I left town—this fellow looked a lot like you. Ives even asked if I had you out on some kind of undercover assignment back then."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Haven't told him anything, yet. Like I said, I've got to ride up to Lake's, and it'll take me the rest of the week, going and coming. And of course it's been two months; the Kid could be in Texas or California or just about anywhere by now. But I just got to wondering. The Hardisons come out of the Border, and you know what that kind is like. Feuds, blood debts. Haythorn was no prize; he was one of those men who kill for the love of it. At least three of his killings, apart from any committed in the course of crimes, were unnecessary—he had the drop, or the victim was unarmed. Still, he was the Hardisons' kin, and they may be looking for the man who put a stop to him. I wonder if, just maybe, the reason Hank Hardison was in this Basin was that he had some cause to think the Amarillo Kid was too. Now put that on top of what Mose had to say, which I'm guessing you've heard about…"

"Yeah, I did." Jess kept his eyes from straying toward the house only by sheer will. "What are you thinkin', Mort? That maybe I did have a true dream? That maybe the Kid is Johnny—and our stage robber—and the Hardisons are huntin' him?"

Mort shrugged. "Stranger things have happened. I thought you might want to know, anyway. Of course, we don't really have any way to connect the Kid to the robberies; Mose isn't young, and his hearing's not what it used to be. He could have made a mistake. And just because Hardison took a stage ride up to South Pass City, which might mean he thought the Kid was there, it doesn't mean that he was, either recently or some time ago. All I know for sure is that, according to Ives, the Kid cleared out of Cheyenne right after he gave a deposition about the shooting. That was two months ago, like I said. He could have gone to the Pass, or through it, or maybe someone in Cheyenne just _thought_ he was heading that way, and that was who Hardison got the word from."

Jess took a slow breath. "Cold trail no matter how you look at it," he said. "Did you find out just when it was Hardison first went up to the Pass?"

"Just about two weeks before we met him," Mort agreed. "At least that's how the stage line's records have it. That would put him as much as six weeks or a little more behind the man he's hunting—_if_ that's what he was doing up there. Not much chance of his finding the Kid after all that time."

"Not unless the Kid's still in these parts, is what you ain't sayin'," Jess finished.

"Not unless," said Mort with a nod. "And it also occurred to me that Hardison would have to've had some kind of descripttion of the Kid. He got a good look at _you,_ Jess. He might think—"

"—That _I'm_ the man he's after?" It was the last thing Jess had considered, up to that moment, but he could see how it might be.

"From the way Ives's deputy described the Kid, it wouldn't be too big a jump," Mort replied. "I know it's kind of a chain of coincidences, but—"

"But they do happen," said Jess. "So you reckoned maybe I should have some warnin'?"

"One way or another, and for whatever it's worth," said Mort. "Now, as I said, it's my own opinion that those two road-agents are gone, and so is Hardison, where I don't know. If _we_ couldn't find them, it's not likely he can. But if he's got a bee in his bonnet about you… forewarned is forearmed. He's ruthless enough, but he's got keen instincts for strategic thinking. The warden in Missouri says he may be the smartest man they've ever had there. He bides his time. He was quiet and cooperative for four months, seemed to completely accept his fate. But all the time he was watching, thinking, planning. When he broke, he caught everybody flat-footed. He's bold, he's clever, he's cool and smart; he doesn't act on impulse. He'll borrow ideas from anybody, on either side of the law, if he sees that they work. He gathers information and then decides what to do—and he rules that gang of his. What makes him really scary is that he doesn't _look_ scary. He looks like a young lawyer—or a young cattleman, depending on how he's dressed. And he's got brass. You saw—he sat in my office, not five feet from me, with no way to know I hadn't just been looking over his poster, and stuck to his story. He's no one to underestimate."

Jess nodded. "'Preciate it, Mort. I'll watch my back."

"That's all I can ask," the sheriff observed, and lifted his reins.

Slim had had some time to think during the exchange, and had perhaps been able to figure some way he could explain the current arrangements in the house. "Sure you won't stay, Mort?"

"Maybe I'll stop on my way back," Corey suggested. "Just, you all keep your eyes open—and tell Matt, too, since I'm guessing he's off somewhere." He gave a lift of his spurs, and his horse jumped forward and headed up the road toward the top of the ridge.

Slim whistled softly. "I remember reading about that Missouri prison break," he said. "A couple of years ago, it was. The article had something to say about Hardison's background. It wasn't good. But who's the Amarillo Kid?"

"Likely it's the name Johnny's been goin' by, when he ain't callin' himself Johnny Jordan, like Francie told us," Jess replied. "So whether Hardison knows it or not, he's huntin' somebody who's on this ranch."

"Only _he_ can't know that," Slim pointed out. "But like Mort said, it's possible he might've gotten the two of you confused."

"Maybe," said Jess slowly. "But he had time enough, before Mort got back to town with the posse, to ask around. Anybody he talked to 'd tell him I ain't ever used that name, and that I ain't been to Cheyenne since last fall."

"Not that _they'd_ know of," Slim qualified. "But you don't have to go through Laramie to get there, which he'd probably be able to figure out. And if he heard that you—we—sometimes work with Mort, he might get to thinking something very much like what Marshal Ives did, that you were there on business, using an alias for cover." He was looking very serious. "We'll have to talk this over with Pa, when he gets back. It could mean trouble, Jess."

"Trouble and me's old friends," Jess reminded him. "What matters is Hardison don't come after Johnny, not till he's in shape to defend himself, anyways."

**SR**

**About forty-eight hours later:**

Johnny Harper's fever had broken sometime during the night, according to Mary, who'd been on duty at his bedside at the time. It had been a difficult siege—the arm itself might have been freed of infection, but that didn't mean there wasn't still poison in the young man's blood, forcing his body to fight it in the only way a body has—but Daisy had become somewhat accustomed to the peculiarities of Harper fevers. Since his temperature returned to normal, Johnny had been resting quietly, but in the past hour or so he had become restless, a sign that he might presently regain consciousness. So she wasn't surprised when his eyelids began to flutter, then parted slowly to reveal the deep cobalt blue beneath. Daisy might be well past her giddy girlhood, but she wasn't dead, and she still appreciated masculine good looks just as she would any other work of art. _How __could one __family throw up two such handsome boys?_ she wondered, waiting silently as he looked around, trying to orient himself, and then fixed his attention on her, sitting in the cane-bottomed armchair beside the bed. His dark, quirked eyebrows drew together in puzzlement. "Ma'am? Ain't—ain't I seen you… somewheres… before?"

She smiled. "We met at a stagecoach robbery, dear."

She saw that hit him, saw the confusion and uncertainty that followed on it, and could almost hear what he must be thinking: _A robbery? When? Where? If she knows it was me, has she told the law? If she has, why ain't I in jail? And what happened, anyhow?_

"I don't—I ain't—I reckon I'm… kinda muddled, ma'am," he said slowly. "A… robbery? Was we on the stage together?"

"No, dear. You held it up. I offered you my bag and watch, and you said not to trouble myself, that you didn't rob passengers."

"I—" he began, and immediately shut up. _I don't,_ was what he had clearly wanted to say, but ingrained habit had stopped him before he could give himself away. He frowned, trying to work out what this meant, and finally settled on a neutral question. "What… happened to me, ma'am? Where'm I at?"

"This is Sherman Ranch and Relay Station, outside Laramie. You were shot—creased, Nathaniel called it—on the left arm, above the elbow, and apparently you didn't take as good care of it as you should have; you contracted an infection. You've been feverish, and sometimes delirious, the best part of three days."

She saw the panic swell up in his eyes. "My—my arm—ma'am, I—you didn't—?"

"No, no, dear, we didn't have to take it off. You're going to be fine, just as soon as we get your strength built up." She smiled as he relaxed, a slow relieved breath huffing out of him, as she'd seen often with Jess. _They're so very much alike… _"Do you remember your brother? Jess Harper?"

"Jess?" the youngster repeated. "I… yeah. Jess was there… him and… a friend of his… he… told me… he'd figured… I'd died…" He seemed to be leafing back through memory, trying to reassemble whatever had happened between them. "I—I recollect, now… Sherman Ranch… we followed him there, after he quit the posse…" With a sudden eagerness: "Is he around, ma'am?"

"Yes, of course. He's hardly gone farther from this house than the barn, these last three days."

"Then… it's okay," he whispered. "We can… maybe start over…" Then, with a faint frown, "Who—who're you, ma'am?"

"I am Mrs. Daisy Cooper—but all the boys call me 'Aunt Daisy,' Jess included. So, since you're his brother, you may call me that too, if you like."

"I never… never had no aunt," said Johnny, in a slow, wondering voice. "Leastways not that I ever got to know. But—Cooper? My ma was a Cooper—one of the Cherokee County Coopers."

Daisy chuckled. "I wouldn't at all object to having such a fine-looking young man in my family tree, but I'm afraid none of my relations live in Texas. Now, your brother is very worried about you. He's been pacing the floor and smoking far too many cigarettes, whenever we wouldn't let him sit with you. Do you feel strong enough to have him come in and talk?"

"Yes, ma'am, I sure would like that." The very prospect of it seemed to give him strength.

"Then stay right in that bed, and I'll get him. And let me warn you, young man, I've nursed Jess through a number of… er, incidents… and I'm quite familiar with Harper tricks, as are the rest of us. So don't think for a minute that you're getting out of this room, or into a saddle, before we think you're ready."

He listened to this in a sort of bewildered astonishment, then said, "No, ma'am."

"And don't suppose I can't see through that innocent tone of voice, either," she said with a laugh, and rose to go to the door.

**SR**

Jess was thinking about the day Johnny had been born; twenty-six years ago, but he remembered it clearly: it was vividly etched in his mind, bright and sharp as the Pole Star on a fair winter's night, even though he'd been only three-and-a-quarter. He'd also been the "cow's tail" in his family: there were the "big boys," Ben, going on thirteen, and Jake, ten; the "girls," Sophie, eight, and Francie, five; and then there was Jess, with his mother's Cooper coloring like Ben and Sophie, but the slighter, wirier build of the Harpers, like Jake and Francie. He stood just a bit taller than three feet high and weighed just over thirty pounds, a sturdy little boy with bright, penetrating eyes; his speaking vocabulary was over 250 words, and he understood many more than he could speak. Three- and four-word sentences weren't beyond him. And, coming as he did right after a pair of sisters who, even at their young age, had demonstrated a distinct tendency to mother him, he'd learned very early to assert himself and stand up for what he considered his natural rights. He was a scrappy, feisty kid, and his brothers predicted great things for him "once he gets his growth."

Ma and Pa had their spool-turned, grained-painted bed in the corner of the sitting room, so when Ma began to feel her pains coming on, she sent Jake running to the houses of the Mexican _vaqueros_ and their families to fetch Isabela, the ranch midwife and _curandera_, and her fifteen-year-old daughter Mercedes—who later married a brother of Sophie's husband. Pa took the big boys out in the yard, and Mercedes kept Jess and the girls in the kitchen; they could go out on the gallery if they wanted to, but the door to the sitting room was closed and the curtains drawn on the windows.

Jess, of course, had no idea what was going on, and Francie, his "buddy," who'd been not quite two when he arrived, had scarcely more. Even Sophie's memories of their two advents were fairly vague. So he had no one he could ask about it, and as any young child would be, he was puzzled but not particularly afraid; the idea that a parent could die—most of all a mother in childbirth—was outside his experience of the world. He could hear gasping and grunting from the other side of the door, and Isabela's voice: _"__Así es ... se presiona ahora… fuertemente ... se presiona ... _[that's right… push, now… strongly… push…]" Then a slap, and another, and a thin wailing. There was a pause, and Isabela put her head out the door; Mercedes went over and they talked in an undertone, and then Mercedes opened the gallery door. Pa was waiting just outside it; much later Jess understood that he must have heard the baby's first cry. _"__Tiene otro hijo_ [you have another son], _Señor_ Harper," Mercedes said, and Pa grinned fit to split his face and hurried through into the sitting room. After a time he sent Mercedes to fetch the big boys in, and when they'd left she took the girls, and finally it was Jess's turn. Pa scooped him up onto his forearm and carried him into the other room; it smelled of clean sheets and Isabela's herbs. Ma was lying in the bed, and there was a little bundle alongside her, wrapped in a blue blanket. "Jesse," she said when she saw him, and smiled in a sleepy, happy way.

Pa put him down where he could stand beside the bed. He looked from one parent to the other, puzzled and a little uneasy. Nobody called him "Jesse" except when he was in trouble, and then it was usually his whole handle, "Jesse Devlin."

The blanketed bundle suddenly made a sound, and his head snapped around. Was it a kitten? Kittens made sounds like that sometimes, when they were very tiny. But why would Ma have a kitten in the bed with her?

Ma folded the edge of the blanket back, and Jess, in astonishment, had his first close-up view of a human baby. "This is your little brother, Jesse," Ma said. "His name is John Jordan, but we'll call him Johnny. You have to love him and protect him." She gently took hold of his wrist and drew his hand out, pressing his forefinger against the infant's tiny one; immediately Johnny's fingers wrapped themselves around it. In later years, when "the littl'uns," Billy and Davy and Julie, joined the family, Jess discovered that a newborn will hold onto anything that touches its palm, but today it was new and astonishing, and even now, so much later, it still seemed special to him. It was like shaking hands, making a deal, the way he'd seen Pa do. _I'm your little brother. You'll take care of me._ And Jess did. They were a team the same way "the big boys" and "the girls" were, only they were "the little boys"—and later, after Ben and Jake left, they became in their turn first just "the boys" and then "the big boys." Till Johnny was four or five years old he hardly needed to talk at all. Jess always knew what he wanted. "He's hungry, Ma," he'd say, or, "He's wet, he needs a change," or, "Pick him up, Pa, he wants to see." Years later, after Ma died when they were nine and twelve, their bond became even tighter. It was like what he had now with Slim or Andy.

Funny how things worked out. Up in the cabin Johnny had been so… so eloquent, able to say more about his feelings than Jess had ever been.

He had looked up at Pa for confirmation, that day, all the words he knew suddenly deserting him and leaving him mute and wondering, and Pa had squatted down on his heels, the way range men do, and said, "What your ma means, Jess, is that you and Johnny have got to be partners. Like Ben and Jake are. They help each other out, they take care of other."

_I tried, Pa. I tried. And I know Slim's right and it wasn't my fault I couldn't do my duty by him. But I feel like I failed him, all the same. I didn't do it a-purpose, but I failed him. If he don't make it… how can I live with myself?_

"Jess! Hey, Jess!"

The Texan turned, dropped quickly off the corral rail on which he'd been perched. "What's up, Tiger?" he asked, as Mike, who had been turning the barrel churn outside the kitchen door, came racing up.

"Aunt Daisy says to say, your brother's awake and wantin' to talk to you," the boy reported.

Jess felt, not only as if a crushing weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but as if the sun were suddenly brighter, the air sweeter, his whole body light as a four-month colt's. He scooped Mike up by two hands under his arms and whirled him around, fetching a cascade of delighted giggles, and let out a wild whoop of joy, then let the youngster drop back to earth and took off for the house, running.

**SR**


	4. Chapter 4

Johnny heard the fast, light strides crossing the floor outside his room, the music of spurs jingling. He couldn't turn toward the door, because it would have meant rolling onto the injured arm, but he craned his neck around and lifted his head as best he could. Jess peered around the edge of the half-open door, his hat in his hand, a gap-toothed smile on his face as Johnny had seen so often when they were boys. "Hey," he said softly. "How're you feelin'?"

"Ain't exactly—figured it out, yet," Johnny admitted. He glanced toward the chair. "C'mon sit down so's I can look at you easier."

"You bet." Jess pushed the door almost closed behind him, for privacy, and seated himself. "You hurtin' much?"

"Some," Johnny admitted. "Mostly I'm… kinda confused. There was a lady here, said to call her Aunt Daisy… said she was on a stagecoach I robbed… Jess? Am I—does the law—?"

"Law don't know you're here, not yet," Jess assured him. "I tell you what, why'n't you lay still and keep still and I'll tell you how it went."

Johnny hesitated a moment, then: "'Kay."

He listened attentively as Jess reminded him of their confrontation and his collapse in the old trapper's cabin, sketched the journey down the mountain, and told of how Francie had been here when they arrived. "She's married, Johnny, did you know that?"

"No," said Johnny. "I ain't been back to Galveston… ain't hardly been back to Texas… since '65. Who's her husband?"

"Feller name of Ben McKittrick. In kinda the same line we… uh, used to be in, only he's decided to retire and go into horses."

"Heard of him," Johnny admitted. "When'd this happen?"

Jess took a moment to think. "Sometime in '72, by what she said."

Johnny gave a wry snort. "Reckon maybe she didn't need all them bank drafts I been mailin' her after all."

"No, they come in handier'n you think," Jess told him. "Ben got put in Huntsville Prison a couple years, and… well, Francie had her a baby… needed that money for the time she couldn't work, and for payin' the doctor…"

"A baby? For true?"

Jess sighed. "Yeah, but it didn't live. Francie said, the money you sent bought it a real nice funeral, and a marble headstone."

Johnny was silent a moment. "Wisht I could'a' known it. Would'a' been nice to be called Uncle Johnny."

"Yeah." Jess paused, thinking perhaps of his own prospects of uncle-hood, and then went on to explain how Francie and Ben happened to have come, and why Johnny's presence remained a household secret. "We figured better to wait till you're stronger and get some chance to talk to Francie and me again, and get to know Ben."

"I'd like that," Johnny said quietly. He thought the situation over, then added slowly, "Jess, I—I ain't said this to nobody in longer'n I can recollect, but—I'm sorry. I should'a' known there had to be a good reason you didn't come. It just never come to me you might not know me and Francie was still alive. I reckon I had a mad on at the whole dang world after the raid, and you just got roped into it…"

"I reckon we ain't the only two that got our lives twisted around by that war," Jess replied. "My pard Slim, him and his pa had some rough words over it, and Aunt Daisy, she lost her only boy… that's what wars do."

"You got a pard? Like me?"

Jess's smile softened a moment. "Yeah. You kinda met him, up at the cabin. That big tall blond feller. Name's Slim Sherman, this is his family's place, and I live here too—I'm a partner."

Johnny's eyes widened. "We—Nardo and me—we knew about you livin' here, but not that."

Jess tilted his head. "How long since you found out?"

"Ain't sure," Johnny admitted, frowning. "We picked you up when you was on that posse and followed you down to the lower country, saw you ride into the yard…"

Jess nodded. "Okay. That'd be… le'me think a minute… little bit less'n five days. Most of it you been sleepin'."

Johnny turned his thoughts inward, pondering over all that he had learned and what it might mean. "Jess?"

"Yeah, Johnny."

"I reckon…" He paused a moment, then took a deep breath and plunged. "I reckon I done some things, these eight years or so, that Ma wouldn't'a' thought too high of—nor Pa neither—but, Jess, I never stole from nobody that'd be ruined by the loss, nor done hurt to no woman or child, nor shot no man that wasn't armed and facin' me, nor took no horse I hadn't paid for. Never done none of them things, Jess, nor never will."

His brother reached over and laid a warm black-gloved hand over Johnny's good one. "I believe you, Johnny. You never lied to me when you was a sprout, I don't reckon you're likely to start this late." A pause. "Johnny, didn't you—" He stopped, ducked his head and ran a hand through his hair. "Ain't nobody—"

Johnny frowned, puzzled. "What are you tryin' to ask me, Jess?"

"All these stage jobs you been pullin'," Jess began— "you always seem to come away with somethin' worth your trouble—you must'a', well, done some good scoutin'—ain't nobody mistook you for me since you come into this country?"

Johnny shook his head. "Never one time, Jess. That's why I was so set back when I got a look at you through the field glasses. It was the first I knew you was in these parts."

Jess's brows drew together. "Now how do you reckon that was?"

"Maybe," Johnny suggested thoughtfully, "it was on account of me and Nardo split things up. He looked the Basin over from Rock River on south, and I covered from Medicine Bow up toward Casper and South Pass City. Reckon they don't know you too good up that way?"

"No," Jess agreed, "not so much. I go along the stage road a good bit, and out to Cheyenne frequent, and I been down Colorado way a few times since I settled here. Mostly it's Slim goes north, or Matt—that's his pa—sometimes."

Johnny studied him. "These folks here—they been good to you?"

Jess smiled. "They been real good, Johnny," he agreed, his voice warm with his love for the place he'd found.

Johnny wasn't accustomed to analyzing his own feelings, but he found that he could distinguish no sense of jealousy, only genuine interest. "Tell me about 'em?"

The smile became a grin. "Sure thing."

Johnny listened in silence as his brother told how he had first come here, about the Tennison land war and the death of Bannister, and sketched a picture of the people and relationships of Sherman Ranch, including the way Mike and Daisy had become part of the household. He interrupted only once, to say, "I heard about Bannister, just didn't know who done him. That was when Nardo and me teamed up and started runnin' beef over the Mexican line. There just didn't seem to be nothin' else worth my doin'."

Jess sighed. "Reckon I kinda felt that way my own self, 'ceptin' it wasn't exactly somethin' I knew I was doin'. Slim, he says he reckoned I'd settled the score for our family, I'd repaid him and his for savin' my life and takin' me in, and maybe it just seemed like there wasn't no need nor reason for me to go on livin'." His tone became intense. "But there was, Johnny. There always is. I found that out. I ain't been so happy as I am here since our folks was alive."

Johnny nodded thoughtfully against the pillow, and Jess went on with his story. He'd barely finished when there was a light knock at the door, and Mary Sherman put her head in. "I think you've been here long enough, Jess. Your brother's probably tired, and he ought to have something to eat before he falls asleep again. We've made a pot of potato soup, 'thick enough to walk on,' Jonesy says."

"Yes, ma'am," Jess agreed. "I'll be out in just a minute."

She withdrew, accepting the implied promise, and Jess pushed to his feet. "You'll be wantin' to talk to Francie, I reckon. Next time you're awake I'll send her in." Then he said gravely, "Johnny, you know we're gonna have to do somethin' to settle up for all these robberies. Ain't nobody been hurt but Mose—you remember him, he's the driver that got shot the day you was—and I reckon that must'a' been a accident, though I ain't asked him—but the money and the gold—" He let the words hang, as if to see how Johnny would react.

"We ain't spent a lot of it, not what we've took since we been workin' your Basin," Johnny said slowly. "Maybe a couple hundred dollars for supplies and night-overs and such… I'd been meanin' to send Francie another bank draft, but not till we crossed back to Cheyenne. I could give it back—my share, I can't make that choice for Nardo, he'd have to be the one to say…"

"That'd be a start," Jess agreed. "Can't nobody in Colorado come after you up here, 'long as there's no posters out on you… and Mort Corey's known that alias of yours for near on a week, reckon he'd let me know if there was. Slim says Matt'll pay for a lawyer if you want one—says you might not have to do more'n a year or two—maybe probation, even, here or with Francie and Ben, both us bein' kin…"

"I'll ponder on it, I promise," Johnny told him. "These folks… like you said, they saved your life. Reckon I owe 'em some for that. If they feel like helpin' me's what they ought to do, for your sake, then I reckon I got no right to say no."

**SR**

**On the ridge, about the same time:**

"That's the place," said Hank Hardison. "I saw four men—one was kind of old—and one woman, and two boys, but that doesn't mean there weren't ranchhands out on the range, or maybe somebody off visting a neighbor or something. We need to spy it out real well, be sure of how many people we've got to deal with, when the stages come through—we don't want to be interrupted by one when we're in the middle of our business, there might not be enough of us to deal with the driver and passengers and maybe a guard as well as the ranch folks. And get an idea of the routines, whether Harper has any particular times he goes out. Those, or one of 'em, could be when he makes contact with the Kid, or leaves a message for him in some spot they've agreed on."

Luke mulled this over for a minute or two, then nodded, albeit with a reluctant air; given his wartime experience, a lightning raid with plenty of shooting would probably have suited him better, but he'd learned by now that his younger brother's plans were generally profitable, and what was more unlikely to result in any harm to the gang itself, something a small outfit was anxious to avoid. They couldn't settle scores for Ren if they were dead, after all. "Okay," he agreed. "You said you'd be best off not to go back into Laramie. Where do you figure to stay?"

Hank nodded sidewise at the pine timber in which they lay, six men in a row on their bellies. "These trees are thick, and I can dig out a hole to hide my fire. There's a little hollow down on the other side—you saw it when we came in—where my horse can stay; nobody'll see him from the road, and I can get to him quick and easy if I need to."

"We better decide on a rotation," Chess suggested. "Even with the glasses—" like not a few outlaw gangs, the Hardisons owned and used a community pair of binoculars— "a man can get tired just starin' at the same place all day."

"There won't be much light out here once the sun's out of sight," Boone pointed out. "Not like in town where you got street lights and lights fannin' out from saloons and such. And if it's a workin' ranch, Harper's much likelier to use a regular workin' ride to cover whatever he's up to with the Kid. Don't seem as if there'd be much need to keep watch at night."

"I don't think so either," Hank agreed. "Suppose we keep three up here, including me, during the daylight hours. This time of year, that's about fifteen hours, plus a couple of twilight. If we change off twice, each can watch for a little under three of those, then rest for five and a half."

"Let's cut for high card," said Luke, "and decide who stays and who goes."

**SR**

Under ordinary circumstances, Jess wouldn't have taken tamely to the idea of sticking around the headquarters seven days out of the week, but Matt thought it might be wiser for him not to go out on the range alone—or even with a partner who might be endangered by the proximity, _if_ Hardison and his gang were anywhere in the vicinity—and Jess could see the wisdom of this. In any case, he wanted time to get reacquainted with his siblings, to get to know Ben, to begin talking over possibilities for the future. As for Johnny, with the typical Harper toughness, inside two days after first reviving, he was on his feet and ravenous. It was only then that Slim and Jess sat him down and explained about just who Ren Haythorn had been, and who might have taken offense at his death.

"I ain't sorry a bit for killin' him," Johnny said flatly. "Not after what he done to Eva Rose."

"You don't have to be," Slim assured him. "I wouldn't either. I know Jess wouldn't, and I don't think Pa or Ben would. It's just that, now that you've found family again, begun to think about turning your life around… you don't want to do something that might throw it away. Do you? It's not about courage, Johnny. We all know you've got more than your share of that; most road-agents don't stop stages the way you do—did—on foot in the middle of the road with just a shotgun and a six-shooter, no horse nearby in case something goes wrong. It's about wanting to live, about a future—and about Jess and Francie; now that they've found you, you don't want to make them lose you again, least of all to an outfit like the one Mort talked about."

Johnny mulled this over a minute. "Reckon I don't. Reckon I hadn't thought of it like that." He grinned, and it was so much like Jess's that Slim's heart nearly stopped. "Nardo told me he thinks your ma's a wise lady. Reckon maybe you take after her."

"_Somebody_ in this partnership has to think for the rest," said Slim humorously, giving Jess a quick nudge with his elbow.

Matt and Slim had taken the small table out of the kitchen and set it at the end of the bigger family dining table so that there'd be room enough for everyone—the ranch family, the McKittricks, Johnny and Leonardo—to gather around it for meals. Evenings, Nardo often borrowed Mary's guitar for a while and played lively Mexican dance tunes and slow, sweet waltzes that had all three of the women being whirled around by the five men until they lost their breath. As his health improved, Johnny seemed to soften and blossom in the warmth of his siblings' presence and the acceptance of the inhabitants of Sher-man Ranch. "It's just what I told you about Jess when he first came here," Mary told her husband. "Do you remember?"

"I do," Matt agreed, and he did. _"There's a saying, isn't there, that a man's eyes show what he was born with, and his mouth what he's done with it? Look at his. Look at those clear blue eyes, the way they change their tint, the way sometimes he can't meet yours. Look at his mouth, still soft and mobile; look at the shy, boyish way he smiles. He's not bad. He's only trying to survive, the best way he knows. Something, sometime, maybe when he was very young, set him on this trail, and the longer he rides it, the harder it gets for him to stay alive. Maybe he's almost forgotten what it's like to live any other way. Maybe he thinks he's past redemption. But __I__ don't think so—and I don't think you do either, Matthew Jacob Sherman!" _

"That Bannister's got a-plenty to answer for," was what he said aloud. "He didn't just kill off most of a family, he blighted the lives of them that was left. I said it before and I'll say it again—times I wish he was still alive so I could kill him all over."

"Better to help Francie and Ben make a new life, and Johnny too," Mary replied. "They'll need land; you know this basin better than anyone but Reed McCaskey and old Single-Shot Newhouse." She meant a retired mountain man Mort Corey occasionally used as a tracker. "They'll need money for a stake; Mr. Wilson will listen to you if you vouch for them. And as for Johnny, he'll have to have a lawyer."

"He'll get one," Matt promised, "even if I got to send over the mountains to Cheyenne. Marshal Ives would know all the best

ones, and he likes Jess—he'll help."

Andy and Mike, predictably, took to Johnny at once—he was so much like his brother that they could hardly help it—and did yeoman service helping him keep occupied during the day when Jess had to be outside helping with chores and stagecoaches. Mike pestered him for stories about his wanderings until Jess took the boy aside and firmly, quietly pointed out that Johnny's years alone—or even on the dodge with Nardo—might not be something he wanted to think much about. "He's startin' a new life, Tiger, same as I done when I come here. If he's minded too much about th'other one, he might get to wonderin' whether it's worth the risk of court and all."

One evening late, after Mike had been sent to bed and Nardo had excused himself and gone out to the bunkhouse, Slim brought up a question that had been gnawing away at him ever since the day he and Jess had brought Johnny home and he'd listened to Francie telling about her experiences during and after the war. "Johnny," he said, "what really happened between you and Gil Brady, anyway?"

Johnny didn't meet his eyes. "Why bother with that? Was a lot of years ago. It don't matter now."

"Sure it matters," Jess retorted from his seat on the hearth shelf. "Matters I thought you and Francie was dead, don't it?"

Johnny looked at him with an expression of blank astonishment that would have done credit to Slim at his best, as if the connection had never occurred to him. Mary, seeing it, pressed the advantage. "Your brother's right, Johnny. It's never too late for explanations, not till the last moment of life. It's never too late to be forgiven."

"I don't need no forgivin'!" snapped Johnny, in a blaze of quick Harper fury.

"_Johnny!"_ Jess barked.

The younger Harper looked down, abashed, and the ranch family were struck by how similar the two of them were, not only in looks and speech, but in mannerisms. It was a measure of the depth of Johnny's admiration—worship—for his older brother that even now, after so many years of thinking their agreement and their bond betrayed, so much of him was still, recognizably, Jess: the way his eyebrows angled, the way he ducked his head in inarticulate or embarrassed moments, the way his eyes became veiled or wouldn't meet his questioner's when he had something to hide or just didn't want to talk, the way he rubbed forefingers against thumbs... even the way he wore his gun and tied his bandanna. "Sorry, ma'am," he mumbled. "Ain't got no call to be talkin' like that, not to you least."

"I'd like to know too, Johnny," Francie put in softly. "It's not that I loved Gil, exactly, but I can't help thinkin' that his attentions to me had somethin' to do with it."

Johnny hesitated. "I—I didn't want it to come to what it done. I wasn't sure but what you cared for him, and I wouldn't'a' hurt you for a thousand dollars gold, Francie. I didn't reckon he'd be good for you, and I wanted him to leave you be, but I wouldn't'a' hurt him if—if—" He stopped, as if unsure of how much to reveal.

It was Jess, out of his years in the gun trade, who made the connection. "I can guess what happened. When Dixie Howard was trainin' me, he told me about all the mean, low-down tricks another man can play on you, to force a fight that'll look fair when folks come runnin' to see what the shootin' was about. The way Francie tells it, you had your gun in your hand and you wasn't bleedin', so it ain't likely Gil got it away from you and threw it down a few feet in front of you and told you to pick it up. What'd he do? Come up quiet-like from behind you, draw, call to you, and reckon to let you have it as you turned, before you knew your danger?"

Johnny didn't answer for a whole long minute, and that very silence told the rest of them that Jess had called it. "How did you get out of that alive, boy?" Matt asked.

"He didn't quite do like Jess said," Johnny replied, his voice low. "He called to me from behind, that's true, but he didn't draw first. I reckon he figured it that with that second or two of warnin' he could get his iron out before I was facin' him."

It was Andy who asked the question. "So what did you do?"

"Jumped sideways and rolled," Johnny explained. "He was expectin' me to stay square in front of him, and standin'. He drew, but in them few seconds as he was tryin' to adjust to me not bein' where he'd figured on, I got about a dozen foot to his left, come to a stop on my belly, and let go." A pause. "In goin' on nine years since, I ain't seen a man look so surprised as he died."

"How'd you think to do that?" Slim asked, out of the moment of silence that followed. "It's something Jess would do—one of his favorite moves; we've all seen it. But like he said, he was trained by Dixie Howard, and you weren't, or by anyone like him—or were you?"

"No," Johnny agreed slowly, "I wasn't. It was a funny thing. I know it can't'a' been no more'n maybe thirty seconds I stood there after Gil called me—I knew it was him, I knew the voice—but it seemed like forever. Seemed like in that little space of time, I could see in my head all the things that might happen if I turned, and just how long he'd be willin' to wait before he took his chances and just shot me down where I stood and tried to run for it before anybody could reach us, and all the ways I could maybe live through the next two minutes… and sudden-like it seemed I knew what I had to do."

Jess looked at his brother with a new respect. Not yet eighteen, with no such schooling in the art of fight as Jess himself had had at that age, and yet somehow, perhaps out of sheer instinct, perhaps because he'd been living first in Brownsville and then in Galveston for three years and heard stories of gunfights—maybe even seen a few—he had figured out, in a brief instant of time, with his enemy behind him, that Gil was almost certainly heeled and ready, and what tactic would be most effective in such a situation.

"But why did Gil want to kill you?" Mary asked. "Weren't you friends, the two of you?"

"No, ma'am," Johnny told her. "We hadn't lived in the same house but a little more'n a year before him and his big brother Milt took off to join the Confed'rate Army, and we hadn't got on too good even then. I don't rightly know why, but there was always somethin' about him that didn't feel right to me. I had this sense that he was sly, always thinkin' how he could get what he wanted and not much carin' who he hurt in the doin' of it." His lips tightened a moment. "I didn't reckon to let no jasper like that marry up with no sister of mine—I'd promised Jess I'd take care of her. And I reckon Gil knew it. I didn't have no legal say over her, bein' younger, but like Jess said when he rode out, us three was all we had left, and we had to be a team—it'd always been Harpers against the world, he said, and I reckon Gil guessed that and figured she'd maybe give some thought to what I had to say."

"I would have," said Francie, pale but uncondemning. "I wish you'd told me."

Johnny shrugged and looked away. "Wasn't no point. It was done and over, and like I said, I didn't rightly know how you felt about him; I didn't like the notion of leavin' you with a bad picture of him—nor his folks neither, after they'd took us in and treated us like their own better'n five years."

"That was a very brave, kind, unselfish thing to do, Johnny," Mary said quietly. "Didn't you ever realize that? The longer we know you, the more we see how very much like Jess you are."

He managed a shaky smile. "Ma'am, was a time, back fifteen years or so, I'd'a' give anythin' to hear somebody say that."

**SR**

**Laramie:**

Sheriff Mort Corey was relieved to have had no further stage holdups reported to him; he knew it probably meant that Johnny Harper, alias the Amarillo Kid (if it was him), was no longer in this part of the country, which meant that what he'd taken would more than likely never be recovered, but he was also quietly glad that Jess Harper, whom he considered a friend, wouldn't be forced to choose between his kin and the law.

On the other hand, these last few days, he'd been noticing a few new faces around town—faces that had sent him back to those U.P. dodgers he'd discovered after he got back from the posse. Their descriptions weren't as minute and exact as the one from the Missouri pen, but they were certainly sufficient to make him think that he was seeing the rest of Hank Hardison's gang. Hank himself was keeping out of sight, but the fact that his followers seemed to be drifting in and out of Laramie suggested that they were planning something.

He'd have liked to sweep the whole lot of them up at once, but there were never more than three of them around, sometimes only two. He didn't want to hold his hand for too long; there was no telling where or when they meant to strike. After four or five days, he decided he'd better take as many of them out of circulation as he could, which might scare the rest off.

He didn't doubt they'd gotten him spotted long ago, but he had the immense advantage of a father who had also worn a badge for most of his adult life and had taught him many good strategies for dealing with lawbreakers of every stripe. He figured that by now they'd convinced themselves he either didn't know who they were or didn't want to risk tangling with them: many sheriffs (being for the most part elected officials) were more politicians than peace officers, and not really well equipped to deal with the Hardisons' caliber.

When he moved at last, he took them completely by surprise.

No outlaw with any brains at all tried anything when cornered by a man with a sawed-off shotgun loaded with twelve-gauge buck. There were only two of the gang in Dooley's when he took them, but that was one-third of the whole and diminished the odds against him significantly.

Of course, it didn't mean their friends wouldn't try to get them out. Mort decided he'd better hole up and wait to see what happened. He locked up the jail and went over to the general store to stock up on food, then closed himself up in the office like a hermit crab in its shell, cleaned and oiled all his guns, and settled down.

**SR**

**On the ridge overlooking Sherman Ranch, next midmorning:**

Hank Hardison was satisfied now that he knew what he was up against. He'd worked out the pattern of stagecoach arrivals—there were four of them every day, two out of Laramie and two going in. He knew that besides the two Sherman men and Harper, there were what seemed to be a couple of hired hands (at least, they slept in what was apparently a small bunkhouse annexed to the west side of the barn, though they ate their meals in the house), three women (one white-haired, one middle-aged, and one in her prime—perhaps she was married to the younger Sherman); two boys, and the old man in the brown derby hat. Eleven against his six, and at least two of those (the oldest woman and the younger boy) probably wouldn't be part of the defensive force. On the other hand, they'd have the house to hole up in, and there were enough of them to cover every side of it. Hank knew that it takes more men to sustain a siege than to defend against it, and he also didn't like the idea of hitting them on a day when a stage might roll in at the wrong time. For that matter, situated as it was on a county road, the place probably got a lot of traffic, from neighbors to casual drifters—people who might take a hand if they discovered it under attack. And he didn't want to make his move when any of the ranch people were out on the range, for fear of surprises from the rear.

He and Luke and Boone were on watch when Chess found them. "We got big trouble, Hank," he reported. "Sheriff in Laramie's got Jack and Orion."

"Got them? How?" Hank demanded.

"Took 'em without a shot. He had a scattergun—even Jack's got more brains than to draw against one of those," Chess explained; he knew as well as Hank did that Jack was about the family's dimmest lamp. "Only reason he didn't get me too was I was off checkin' out the trails south. Time I got back the town was buzzin' with it."

Hank said nothing for a minute, but his mind was working furiously. "So he's got 'em in jail," he guessed. He remembered that jail, having been inside it. The cell bloc was heavy logs, and while the office was frame, its windows were stoutly barred and its doors easily secured. Maybe the sheriff could be burned out, but the fire might too easily spread to the cells. No, it would have to be either a head-on assault—which would rouse the town and probably get the rest of them killed—or something more subtle.

_If we could force his hand, or trick him…_

"Hank," said Boone suddenly, "lookit here." He'd gone back to watching the ranch yard once he'd heard what Chess had to say.

Hank rolled onto his belly and squirmed up alongside. Down in the ranch yard the younger of the two Shermans—Slim, he'd said his name was—was saddling a handsome palomino while the bigger boy threw a lightweight Morgan hull onto a freckled gray pony. The smaller boy stood by watching, with a couple of fishing poles in one hand and a basket at his feet.

"We-e-e-ell, now," drawled Hank, "how about that? Looks like a fishing party about to leave. Luke, get the horses ready. Let's just follow along and see where they end up."

**SR**

Sherman Lake had always been one of Andy's favorite places: a gemlike pocket of vivid blue folded within low hills and with a shoreline speckled with conifers and big gray boulders. Grayling and sheepshead, walleye and bass, sauger and trout haunted its deep, cold waters—Pa and Slim both agreed it was almost certainly spring-fed—and watercress could be found along its margin; game—and predators looking for game—drank at it regularly, making it a good place for a hunter to lie in wait if he was in a hurry to get something. The slopes leading down to it were steep, and Cyclone and Giant had to take their time and pick their way carefully, but eventually they reached the level. The boys unloaded their lunch and gear, hung the bridles around their horses' necks so they could feed, removed their saddles and hobbled them, and Andy staked Cyclone well out of reach the pony, the palomino being noted for a certain aggressiveness toward other horses, though only if they were unridden. This done, he hiked slowly along the water margin until he came to a spot he knew to be directly above a good deep hole where trout were wont to lurk. Mike followed, trying to step exactly in his foster-brother's bootprints and putting his toes down first, "so's not to shake the banks," as Jess had said.

They spread a blanket on the grass, put their lunch basket in the shade of a big rock, and settled down to wet a few flies from the set of fourteen that Jess had given Andy for Christmas, the first year he'd lived here. He figured if the trout didn't bite, they could always catch some grasshoppers and go for sheepshead instead, but trout were the household favorite—and they were bigger, too, which meant that it took less of them to feed everyone.

"Andy?" Mike ventured after a while.

"What, Mike?"

"Andy, do you reckon Jess is gonna leave us?"

The older boy bit down hard on the inside of his lip and took a good long moment to think about his answer. He knew that Mike, like himself, had a very special relationship with the young Texan; Slim had explained it to him, very carefully, after Mike first came here. _"You were there the day he told us about how he lost his family. It scarred him badly; everything he was when he came to us grew from that. Now he sees Mike, who's lost his folks in a similar way, and it's natural he'd sympathize—you can see that, can't you? It's not that he cares any less about you than he ever has. It's just that, right now, Mike needs him more than you do. And besides that, Mike is just about the age his brother Billy was when he died in the fire... the same way that, when Jess first met you, you were the age his brother Johnny was, the last Jess saw him. Jess is still your brother, just as much as I am, even if he's only adopted. But he knows what it is to be cast out into the world alone, with nobody to help you, nobody to depend on. He can't bear to think of Mike __going __through that, least of all so young. And he knows about bitterness, too, and about what __longing __for revenge can do to you."_

Andy had been jealous of the younger boy at first, something he didn't feel good about remembering; after all, it was hardly Mike's fault that his folks had been killed, or that Jess had been the one to find and rescue him. Once he understood just what was driving Jess, he'd done his best to be a good big brother to Mike—had even found himself enjoying the sensation of not being the youngest on the totem pole any more. Carefully, he said, "Do _you_ think he will?"

"I dunno," Mike admitted. "I know he calls us his family, but we ain't really, are we? Miss Francie's his sister, and Johnny's his real brother—not like you or me or Slim. That's how come I asked. They can't go on livin' here with us all the time, there ain't enough room. Johnny's just about well again. Pretty soon they'll have to figure out what they want to do and where they want to go."

"Maybe they'll stay close," Andy suggested. "Ben wants to start raising horses, he says, but he could do that in the Basin."

"But even then," Mike argued, "Jess'd go live with them, wouldn't he? He's so awful good with horses, it'd suit him real well, and he'd be with his kin. And Johnny was robbin' stagecoaches, so maybe they'll have to go somewhere else so's Sheriff Corey won't arrest him."

"I heard Pa and Slim talking about maybe hiring a lawyer for him," Andy told him. "They think if he gives back the money he took, he'll get a short sentence, maybe none at all, 'cause Mose was only hurt by accident."

Mike considered that. "But even then," he pointed out, "Jess would still be livin' _there_, with them, not here."

"We'd see him a lot," Andy declared. "He'd want it that way just as much as we would."

"That wouldn't be the same," said Mike, and Andy had to agree privately that it wouldn't. It might be even harder on him than on Mike, because he'd known Jess longer. Sometimes it seemed like Jess had always been here, same as Ma and Pa and Slim and Jonesy.

And apart from that, despite what he'd said about the McKittricks maybe deciding to settle nearby, he wasn't at all sure they would.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Cyclone suddenly throw up his head, his long white forelock flying, and heard the palomino snort. He shoved around on his hip and froze as he saw the two men just a few feet behind the horse and recognized one of them as the man who'd been on the stage the day Mose was shot. Andy's parents had never believed in keeping things from him, less so now that he was past sixteen and almost grown up, and what was more he'd been there when Sheriff Corey stopped by and talked about this man. He was a serious outlaw, one who'd even broken out of a prison back East. _What does he want?_ Andy wondered, trying to school his face to the same kind of unrevealing mask that Jess used when he was in a dubious situation. _Why is he here? He—they—must've followed us… been __watching __the house, maybe…_

"Andy…" Mike sounded worried. The older boy swung his head in the other direction. There were two other men approaching from the other side of the rock. One of them had auburn hair and blue eyes, clear as glass and nearly as cold.

"Stay still, Mike," he ordered quietly. Jess always said, when you weren't sure what to do, don't do anything. Wait, watch, listen, find out everything you could, then make your move.

Andy's birthday was the sixth of December, and Slim's barely a month later, so both had always been observed in tandem with Christmas. This last year Slim and Jess had clubbed together to present their "kid brother" with a Smith & Wesson .44 Model 3 American revolver, and a belt and holster for it. They'd replaced the sixgun's factory buttplates with wooden ones of a milky golden color which Jess had crosshatched with a file edge in a pattern of diamonds, to make for a surer grip, and had the backstrap engraved with his initials, ALS for Andrew Lyle Sherman. Introduced five years earlier, the type had quickly gained popularity as reliable and quick-loading, and was said to be a favorite with lawmen and outlaws alike, though it had a less graceful shape than the commoner Colts and Remingtons. Andy wasn't carrying it today; his mother didn't mind if he wore it when he was out on the range—he might meet with a rattlesnake, or have to kill a crippled animal—but she didn't want him to have it when it was just him and Mike. Mike was too young, she said, to be thinking about wearing a gun himself, and he might, if he saw the family member nearest his own age packing one. Andy thought this rather spurious reasoning—Mike saw Pa and Slim and Jess wearing theirs all the time—but he respected his mother too much to go against her request. Right now he wished she wouldn't worry so much. It wasn't like Mike's hand would be big or strong enough to hold a sixgun steady, or cock and fire it in one movement, for three or four years yet. If he'd been heeled, Andy thought, these four might have decided to back off without approaching them.

None of them had troubled to draw their own guns, though all were armed. The first pair moved past Cyclone and stopped so they were between the boys and the horse—not that that would have signified much: Andy and Mike could both ride bareback, Jess had made sure of that, but Cyclone was pegged and hobbled. The second pair, who didn't have to cover any horses, kept a slightly greater distance, maybe ten feet farther back than their partners. "Well, now," said the one who'd been on the stage—Hank Hardison, Sheriff Corey had said his name was. "They biting?"

"Not yet," said Andy, his lips stiff. _What do you want?_ he wanted to add, but he thought it would be better to mind his manners.

Hardison studied him with interest. "You related to Harper? You've got almost his color hair."

"No," said Andy. "My name's Andy Sherman. Jess is… he's my best friend, but we're not kin."

"So you'd be… let me guess, now. The old man, Matt Sherman, he's, what, your pa or your grandpa?"

"My pa. Slim's my big brother."

Hardison nodded thoughtfully. "I hear Harper thinks quite a lot of you folks at that ranch, and you of him," he continued.

Andy hesitated; this seemed to be the kind of information that would give Hardison some sort of advantage—but how? Surely he wouldn't have anything against Jess, or Pa, or Slim…

Then it hit him. Johnny. Sheriff Corey had said that Johnny had killed a cousin of Hardison's over in Cheyenne.

Mike jumped into the breach with the impulsiveness of his age. "Uncle Matt says, the Sioux have a word for a family that ain't blood but feels like it. He says it's _hunka_, and it means 'chosen.' We're _hunka_, us at the ranch."

Hardison tilted his head, apparently intrigued. "And who're you?"

"Mike Williams," the younger boy replied stoutly. "The Indians killed my folks last spring, so I live with Uncle Matt and Aunt Mary now."

The outlaw smiled slowly. It was a pleasant enough looking smile, but it gave Andy chills just the same. "In that case," he said, "you'd both better come along with us." He turned to the man beside him. "Boone, saddle their horses."

Andy thought frantically. He was the oldest, it was his job to protect Mike and take care of him—but the only weapon he had was a knife to clean the fish with. _I could jump into the water,_ he told himself, _and dive, and swim under the surface. Even if they shot at me, they wouldn't be able to hit me—Jess says water makes a distortion and you can't aim right through it. They might not even try; it's only three miles to the house, and the wind's __setting __that way—somebody could hear it…_

_But I'd have to leave Mike behind, 'cause there'd be no way to warn him first and tell him what to do. And I can't do that. He's my responsibility._

The younger boy was watching him uneasily, waiting for a signal. "Andy? What should we do?"

Andy slowly stood up. "What he says to, Mike."

**SR**

Matt had gone up the mountain to the summer range with Reed McCaskey's straw boss the day before, to check up on the Shermans' and their neighbors' cattle, and Ben and Nardo were off doing range work. Jonesy was absorbed in one of his regular tasks, sitting at the dining table cleaning lamp chimneys, refilling fonts, threading new wicks where necessary. Johnny had offered to help; he'd gotten up on the stepladder to remove the lamps from the hanging fixtures, and was now cutting wicking from the thirty-two-yard roll (albeit with an Arkansas toothpick instead of scissors) as if he'd been doing it all his life. In the kitchen, the three women were engrossed in the ongoing recipe exchange that had been occupying their free time (several times joined by Jonesy) for the last five or six days, swapping favorite foods from the Eastern Shore, Pennsylvania, Indiana, Illinois, and of course Texas. Francie had already taught Daisy and Mary how to make many of Jess's boyhood favorite Texan dishes: the chicken pie she and Ben had enjoyed for their reunion supper, chicken slowly skillet-fried in butter, "devil sauce" for pork ribs or barbecued beef, cold bean salad, corn chowder, mashed sweet potatoes laced with wild honey, Spanish onions boiled in cream and glazed in butter, succotash made with any mixture of summer vegetables "as long as there are butter beans in it" and topped with lard or butter, corn lightbread made half of cornmeal and half of wheat flour, Texas ashcakes flavored with bacon, cornbread baked in a skillet with onion tops and sweet clabber and served with honey, fig and pear-chip preserves, cottage pudding, sugar muffins, pecan cake, rich chocolate pie, Texas pecan sauce for ice cream, yellow molasses chips, lemon cookies, the round crusty cookies liberally sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar that were called "stickies." (She'd been delighted to find that they were already familiar with black-bean soup, berry cobbler and raisin cookies, sweet-rolls and shortcake, corn pudding, ginger cakes, fig, lemon, and buttermilk cake, pear, pecan, dewberry, vinegar, and wild-plum pie, and raspberry shrub.) Currently she was revealing the mysteries of hominy in casserole, done with cream, buttered crumbs, and shredded almonds.

Mary had asked for wood, so Slim and Jess were busy sawing and splitting lengths of seasoned deadfall and carrying it into the house. Jess had just vanished into the kitchen with his latest load when Slim heard the hoofbeats—two horses, he thought, slow trot. He looked up reflexively and froze. Coming down the south trail that led past the barn were Cyclone and Giant, fully rigged, their reins tied up over the pommels of their saddles. They weren't lathered and didn't seem to be frightened, but the fact that the boys weren't riding them set off every alarm in Slim's head. _Andy wouldn't have left the saddles on, not for a whole afternoon's fishing,_ he told himself as he chunked his ax into the chopping block and moved forward to meet the animals. _Mike might be that thoughtless, but Andy wouldn't. He'd have stripped them and put them to graze._

Cyclone saw him coming and stopped; the wind was in Slim's face, but the palomino knew him by sight as well as scent. Giant, following the taller horse's example, slowed and paused also. "Easy, boys, easy," Slim murmured, gathering in the reins. "What happened? Where are your bosses?" He felt under Cyclone's crest; the gelding was just barely warm—he hadn't been trotting all the way.

The kitchen door banged, and light, fast footsteps sounded against the packed surface of the yard. "What's goin' on?" Jess demanded. "What are them critters doin' here?"

Slim had just realized that the boys' fishing poles were tied neatly behind the saddles. A chill shot through him. Now he knew there was something badly wrong. It was just barely possible that the horse and the pony might have spooked and run off before Andy had had a chance to settle them. But in that case they'd be hotter, and they probably wouldn't be carrying the poles. "I don't know, but I don't like it."

Jess examined the animals quickly, picking up all the things Slim had. "I better saddle up."

A movement up near the crest of the ridge caught Slim's attention. "No. Wait. There's somebody—" He shaded his eyes with his hand. His distance vision wasn't quite as good as his father's, but it wasn't much worse, and the sun was behind him. "Jess. Get back in the house. It's Hardison."

"What?!" Jess exclaimed, startled, and squinted at the approaching rider. "Dad-gum, it is. But why should I get in the house? He ain't got no quarrel with me."

"He's got one with Johnny, from what Mort told us, and you and Johnny look enough alike to be brothers," said Slim. "Get inside."

"If you think I'm gonna—" Jess began, his voice tight.

"You can't stay here, pard. You're the one he wants, maybe, or thinks he wants. I'm not. Jess, just do what I tell you! It's just the four of us counting Johnny—six if Ma and Francie take a hand—and I'd bet some of his gang's nearby too. Get back under cover till I can find out what he's doing here. It's almost got to be connected to the boys' horses coming back without 'em. Mort said Hardison's out of the Middle Border, and you know what that means as well as I do."

He saw that hit his friend, saw Jess pale a little, as he usually did when something reminded him of Bannister or the fire. "Okay," the Texan agreed. "But I'm gonna have a rifle pointed at him, so be ready to drop."

Slim didn't reply. He led Cyclone and Giant over to the corral and tied them to the rails, then walked back to a point about forty feet from the house and stood, waiting, as Hardison jogged easily down the switchback trail. He figured that this close distance—well within the range of even a shotgun, let alone a rifle—would serve to give the outlaw pause, assuming he meant mischief, and compensate for the fact that Slim, like most men working or lounging around their own buildings, wasn't wearing his sixgun. Behind him he heard the kitchen door creak and flung a quick look back over his shoulder. Jess wasn't in sight, but the door was ajar just an inch or two—just enough to poke a rifle barrel out the gap.

Hardison's horse was a dark brown with a tawny mane and four white feet. Slim recognized it: Frank Dennison at the livery had put it up for sale on behalf of Cole Rogers—a good horse, quiet and well-broke, with both speed and bottom, the kind an outlaw would look for. The man was wearing the dark gray hat Slim remembered, and the two-dollar solid silver guard chain across his middle, with the bear's-claw pendant on it, but otherwise he was dressed now like a cowhand—a striped hickory shirt, canvas ducking pants, a polka-dot cotton bandanna, and the vest from his gray sack suit, plus what looked like a converted war-vintage Remington .44 in a scarred tan holster. Slim recalled what Mort had said: _What makes him really scary is that he doesn't __look__ scary. He looks like a young lawyer—or a young cattleman, depending on how he's dressed. And he's got brass…_

The outlaw slowed his mount and checked, leaving about six feet between the horse's nose and Slim. He glanced toward the house, and Slim saw his eyes flash as he registered the open kitchen door. "Would it be a good guess," he said easily, "if I thought there was a rifle on me?"

"There is," said Slim thinly. "What do you want here, Hardison?"

"So you know who I am," mused the other. His manner was light, almost careless, but Slim wasn't fooled. He'd dealt with more than his share of badmen, and he knew that Hardison figured himself the next thing to invulnerable. The outlaw wouldn't have missed the two saddled horses tied at the corral; odds were he'd sent them down himself, or ordered it done.

"I know," Slim agreed. "We had a visit from Sheriff Corey a few days ago. He told us a lot about you."

"Well," said Hardison, "that makes things easier. I want to talk to Harper."

"You can talk to me," said Slim flatly.

"No-o," drawled Hardison, "my business is with Harper."

"It's okay, Slim," came the Texan's voice before Slim could frame a response. The door creaked again, and Slim could hear his friend's familiar footsteps crossing the space behind him. He heard, too, the sound of one of the kitchen windows going up, and made himself a bet that either Jonesy with his shotgun or Ma or Francie with one of the house rifles was covering them.

Jess appeared directly to his left, his gunbelt strapped in place. "You wanta talk to me, I'm here," he said flatly, "but don't get no fancy ideas. There's three guns on you from the house, and any one can blow you out of that saddle."

"I wouldn't want that," said Hardison in the same light, almost humorous voice, "but I don't think you'd want it either. It might be unhealthful for those two _hunka_ boys of yours, Andy and Mike—did I pronounce it right?"

"I reckon." Jess's voice was cold. "What do you want?"

Hardison gave Slim a speculative look. "Is he in on this?"

"On what?" Jess demanded.

"On the little trick you've been playing on the stage line," said Hardison.

Jess frowned. "Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Sure you do," said the outlaw. "But if you don't mind him hearing it, that's your business. All right. We know you've been working with the Amarillo Kid, tipping him off about rich stages." Slim barely controlled a severe start—was _that_ their explanation for why Johnny had been so successful in these parts? "And we know he's some kin of yours, or at least we figure it's a pretty sure bet."

"Keep talkin'." Jess's face was impassive.

"We've got a little bone to pick with the Kid," Hardison proceeded. "So we decided to see if we could make a trade. You know where he is, or you know how to get in contact with him. We've got your boys. Do I need to say anything more?"

Jess was silent for a minute. "No. I reckon you don't."

"I notice you don't claim he's left the country," Hardison observed.

"That's 'cause he ain't."

A nod. "I figured. It's like what happened after we met the first time. He decided to catch the law off guard, and doubled back and hit a stage coming up out of Laramie while you and the rest of the posse were combing the hills looking for him. That was when he got the currency transfer, and, yes, we heard about that. Now he's figuring if he lies low a week or two, everybody will stop expecting to hear from him. It's been just about that long. Time for him to hit again. So. He'll be hoping to hear from you about another shipment worth his notice. And he's going to hear from you. But when you get him where you can see him, you're going to take his guns and hold him for us."

Again Jess seemed to consider. "I can't fetch him down here right off."

"Didn't think you could. Didn't think he'd come. You tell me where and when we can pick him up. After that you can have your boys back. Simple, right?"

"Yeah." There was a gritty unpleasant undertone in Jess's reply. "Yeah, real simple."

_So simple we can't go through with it,_ Slim thought, though his heart ached for his brother and foster-brother. But he knew better than to say it. He'd seen Jess in situations like this before. Jess wasn't a strategist in the sense of being able to lay plans far in advance, but he could improvise and bluff with the best of them. Right now he'd be thinking that the important thing was to keep Andy and Mike alive until he had the chance to set up a situation he could control.

He spoke again, slowly, as if he was working out the idea even as he described it. "You see that little divide to the north?"

Hardison glanced that way, then quickly back to make sure he wasn't taken by surprise. "I see it."

"If you cross it," Jess went on, "down th'other side you'll come to a creek, with a timber bridge over it, no rails. You turn east up that creek, on this bank, and follow it. After a while you'll hit a rocky little spring that sources it. There's a line cabin there, just inside our fence line. I'll have the Kid there tomorrow at noon."

"You realize we'll be there way ahead of you," said Hardison evenly. "Or at least watching from somewhere close by. So don't think you can lay a trap."

"Ain't plannin' to," said Jess shortly.

Hardison studied him a minute. "All right. Just remember, we see anything we don't like, those boys are gone. Oh, I almost forgot," he added, with a note of amusement in his voice that clearly said he'd done no such thing, "we'll be wanting you too, Harper."

"Why?" Jess demanded. "What more do you want, 'sides J—the Kid?"

"That's a good way to put it," Hardison approved. "You see, your Sheriff Corey's got two of my gang locked up in his jail. From what we know, he's forted up—waiting for the tumbleweed wagon, maybe. We know you work with him regularly; he knows you and trusts you. If _we _tried to toll him out of his office, he might suspect something. But he won't suspect _you_, Harper. You'll ride into Laramie with us and get us in there so we can get our friends out. Oh, don't worry about Corey. We've got no beef with him—he was doing his job, that's all. Maybe we'll lock him in one of his own cells, but if we can get in and out quietly and do what we've come for, we'll have no reason to hurt him."

Jess slid a glance toward Slim, then returned his attention to the outlaw. "How'd I know I can trust you on this?"

"You don't," Hardison admitted. "But what you _do_ know is that if you don't go along with us, what happens to those two boys will be on _your_ head."

A nerve twitched in Jess's cheek, one of the involuntary nervous tics he'd had so often back when he first came here; the corner of his mouth gave a brief downward jerk. Slim could almost hear him thinking it: _You hurt them, you so much as bruise either one, and I'll run you down and kill every last one of you. _"I think it's about time for you to go, Hardison," Slim suggested, his voice even but very tight.

The other nodded. "I think we've said about everything that needs to be said. Tomorrow at noon, Harper." Defiantly, he swung his horse around, turning his back on them and on the three covering guns inside the house. Slim and Jess stood where they were and watched as he climbed the hill and disappeared into the timber.

**SR**

"Ain't but one thing we can do," said Johnny. "I got to give myself up."

"_No!"_ One word from two throats, Jess's and Francie's.

"What else is there?" the younger Harper demanded. "Them boys are your family, Jess—part of it anyhow; you reckon I ain't seen that? That makes 'em mine too. I'd'a' done the same for Billy or Davy—'leastways I hope I would."

"We could change clothes, you and me," Jess suggested. "Make 'em think I'm you."

"But where will that get you?" Francie demanded. "All they'll do is kill you instead of him."

Matt and Ben, the two oldest and most experienced, traded glances with each other, then with Slim, who had his service as an Army officer to draw on. "Got to be somethin' they ain't thought of," growled the rancher.

"By now Hardison's gotten back to the rest of his outfit," Slim guessed, "and they've put a watch on the line cabin. Having to wait till the rest of you got back has slowed our response. They probably figure Jess has some kind of signal arranged that he can send without leaving here, something Johnny can be in a position to see; some of the spies in the war used that kind. They'll expect Jess to be at the cabin first, waiting, ready to take Johnny's guns, like Hardison said. Then they'll move in to take him. Most likely at least one of 'em will stay with Andy and Mike, and if he doesn't hear from the rest by a certain time—" He let the words hang as he saw the expressions on his mother's and Daisy's faces. "Mort said there are six in the gang," he went on. "Two are in jail, and one's with the boys, at least for a while. That leaves three. I don't think they'll want any less, to deal with Jess and Johnny. But if we try to hit 'em at the cabin, they'll have cover, plus two hostages. No, we need to take 'em in town or on the road." He thought for a moment, then: "You're right, Pa, there _is_ something they forgot—or maybe didn't know, because they don't know this country like we do." He waited for his father to make the connection.

Matt slapped his knee. "Cemetery Road!"

"That's right. The short way into town. Eight miles, against twelve by the stage road. Now they just _might_ put one man up on the ridge, to see that Jess leaves in time to get to the cabin ahead of Johnny. They don't know that Johnny's _here_, or they'd have just demanded that we give him up—"

"Yeah," Johnny agreed, "I ain't been out much, only to go to the necessary and get introduced to Mike's critters—if they got sight of me, likely they mistook me for Jess."

"So," Slim continued. "They might expect us to try to take them on the road, before they can get to Laramie. They'll be on their guard along that stretch. They may even keep to the higher ground on the west, so they can watch their back trail. But if we go in by Cemetery, they'll never see us. Their lookout, assuming they post one, won't wait too long after Jess leaves here; he'll want to be in on the jailbreak, so they can all get out of town together. _We_ can head for town before _they_ ever get started, and lay a trap. Now, Johnny, you'll need to move in toward the cabin from some direction other than this one—" He went to the desk, opened the top of it, pulled out a tablet and began quickly sketching a map of the area around the spring from which Stone Creek flowed.

"My bet," said Matt, "they'll wait to move on Mort till it's after dark. Less people on the streets, less chance of anyone seein' and thinkin' somethin's wrong. Jess is supposed to have Johnny at the cabin at noon. Sunset won't be till past seven. Give us plenty of time to find a good spot—maybe two or three—where we can cover the jail."

"Maybe not the jail," Ben suggested. "If we drive 'em back into it, it'll be almost the same as if we'd caught 'em at the cabin; they'll be hard to pry out, jails bein' mostly built to be tough breakin' into—and they might have your sheriff friend for a hostage, maybe even Jess and Johnny. Better to spring it after they've gotten a distance off; they might go off their guard a little by then."

"How can we be sure they won't just kill Johnny as soon as they get hold of him?" Francie asked. "He's the one Hardison wants, for shootin' that cousin of his."

"We'll have to leave that part of it up to Jess," Slim told her, glancing up from his map. "Here, Johnny, take a good look at this. Here we are, and here's Stone Creek, on the other side of the divide—"

**SR**

**Next day:**

Jess had been gone a good three hours, Johnny a little over one, when Matt said quietly, "It's time."

"I'll saddle Alamo and get the horses in from the pasture," Slim offered. "Nardo will want his Chico—which of ours would you rather have, Ben?"

The older Texan considered the question a moment. "That sorrel I had a few days back, I reckon."

Slim nodded. "Fine. I'll bring in the stage teams too, Jonesy—you'll have to stay here and do the changes. We know you'd like to go…"

His father's oldest friend looked grim. "I know. Just you give Hardison one for me, you or Matt, okay?"

"Count on it." Slim lifted his gunbelt off the rack, slung it around his hips and notched the buckle into place, and was reaching for his hat when the bunkroom door opened and Francie came out, wearing Jess's gray woollen trousers and one of his chambray shirts, her hair tied back and twisted up behind her head so that, once she put a hat on, she'd be hard to tell from a boy.

"Bring one for me too, Slim," she said. "Andy's Cyclone, maybe."

Slim boggled at her. _"You're_ not coming with us!"

"You just try and stop me," said she grimly. "Slim, we've got a sayin' down home: 'If a girl's born in Texas she's got to carry two things with her all her life, and learn how to use 'em: a rifle and a Bible.' I've got the Bible in my trunk, and I guess you can spare a rifle for me. These are _my brothers,_ Slim. I know you'll do the best you can to save 'em, but I'm the only one here who's their blood kin, and I've got to be there to help."

Ben was looking at his wife with an expression of almost unbearable pride. "She's right, Slim," he said. "She's got as much part in this as any of us. More right than me—I'm only Jess's in-law."

The younger man shot an inquiring look at his father. Matt studied Francie's face and stance a moment, estimating her by the criteria he'd used for many years as a Santa Fe freight operator, Indian trader, trail boss, and cattleman, then nodded. "Okay. You can take Andy's saddlegun—it's a cut-down Henry, Slim used it in the war. Mary, dig out Andy's blanket coat for her, it'll likely get pretty cool by the time we finish our business. And a hat, if you can find one. Slim, while you're out at the barn, fetch one of the Winchesters for Ben."

"All right, Pa." Slim met Daisy's inquiring look with a shrug, as much as to say, _She's a Harper too—what else can you expect?,_ and vanished out the door.

**SR**

**At the Stone Creek line cabin, about the same time:**

Jess cautiously twitched the flour-sack curtain aside with two fingers, glanced out quickly and immediately withdrew. "They're movin' in," he said, looking across the room at his brother. "Ready?"

The expression on Johnny's face reminded him of a short-fused stick of dynamite, touchy and unpredictable, with only a thread of smoke and a faint spattering of fire to show how close the explosion was. He was dressed as he'd been the day he and Jess first faced each other up on the mountain, with the exception of a new shirt, a plain blue flannel. His black-metalled, bone-handled Dance .44 was tucked into Jess's waistband. "Ready as I'll ever be, I reckon," he said.

"Slim and them, they'll be comin' after us," Jess added. "Don't you ever doubt it."

"I don't."

There was the sound of a fist against the door, and it immediately opened, admitting Hank Hardison and an auburn-haired man with blue eyes as clear as glass and just as cold. The former's eyes flicked from Jess to Johnny and back again, taking in Johnny's empty holster and the .44 in Jess's belt. "He give you any trouble?"

"Why would he?" Jess retorted. "You said yourself we been workin' together. Why'd he have any reason not to trust me?"

Hardison considered that. "Makes sense. Good thing, too. We wouldn't want him too badly damaged—yet." Over his shoulder to the auburn-haired man: "Take Harper's gun, Luke."

Jess stiffened. "That wasn't no part of our bargain."

"It is now." Hardison drew his own sixgun. "Don't get brave, Harper. I still need you to get us into the jail, but that doesn't mean I can't put a hole in you."

"If you want Mort to let me in and not suspect somethin'," Jess argued, holding himself quite still while the man called Luke crossed the room to pull the Dance out of his belt and lift his own Colt out of the holster, "I'll have to have a gun on me."

"You will," Hardison told him. "It just won't have any shells in it. Once you're done with that, Luke, tie their hands. We might as well get as comfortable as we can; we'll have a bit of a wait till Chess gets here."

**SR**

**Farther up the mountain:**

Over the last fifteen years or so, Matt Sherman and his nearer neighbors—the Bateses, the Morgans, the Millers, the Burkharts, Reed McCaskey—had co-operatively erected two or three small but sturdy line-camp cabins in a scattered pattern around the high country they used as summer grazing. Each had a fenced paddock that could be used for horses or for sick or injured cattle, a little low stable-shed with three full walls and part of a fourth, a haystack or two and a water source, and was kept stocked with firewood, groceries, and elementary medical supplies in case a roundup crew, a hunter, or a range rider had need of shelter. The man Hank Hardison called Chess had instructed Andy to lead the way to one such place—he described it, so Andy knew he and his friends must have scouted the area before they made their move, possibly in search of a hideout for themselves—holding Mike before him on his own saddle to insure the older boy's co-operation, and Andy had obeyed, seeing no other alternative. He didn't have Cyclone, of course, but the outlaw had two extra horses, he didn't know why, and had let him ride one of them as he guided their little procession up the mountain.

Chess was a tall, thin man who wore butternut breeches but carried a long blue Cavalry overcoat, trimmed with beaver fur, behind the cantle of his saddle; maybe he'd been a Galvanized Yank, like Jess, or maybe he'd plundered the coat from someone who had no further use for it. He had dark hair with a faintly rusty tinge, a quiet manner and a long, somewhat sorrowful face. He didn't use the boys roughly, although he did tie them both up once they were safely at the cabin. He let them loose long enough to improvise a cold supper that was in fact the lunch Mary and Daisy had packed for them, then bound them again. "You understand, kid," he said, "this wasn't my plan; Hank came up with it. I don't want to hurt you none, but to make sure of that I got to keep you tied."

"What are you gonna do?" Andy asked. "You're keeping us for hostages, I figured that out, but why?"

"That's a long old story, boy," Chess replied. "You ask your pa and your big brother once you get home."

"Are we gonna get home?" Andy retorted.

"You will if Harper does what he's told."

_So it's Jess. I figured it was Johnny. What do they have against Jess? _He pondered the question as he lay there, but couldn't see what the connection might be.

Mike was scared and troubled, but the long day in the fresh air and the stresses of their captivity had worn him out, and he fell asleep as the quick mountain night gathered outside the windows. Andy lay awake, watching as Chess covered the fire, went out briefly to check on the horses, and then came back, took off his boots and gunbelt, blew out the lamp and lay down in the bunk on the other side of the room. He wanted desperately to come up with some plan that would allow them to escape and do something to help Jess, but no matter how he struggled with the question—or his bonds—he couldn't make any progress. At last he too fell into a light, uneasy sleep, with Mike's head against his shoulder.

Around three the next afternoon, Chess policed the cabin, saddled the horses, got the two boys mounted again, and took them back the way they'd come, until they reached an open overlook from which the stage road was visible far below. About fifty feet to the left was a swift, narrow stream that bubbled and boiled along for a hundred yards or so before vanishing into the trees. Chess dismounted, lifted Mike down and helped Andy out of the saddle, then cut his bonds. "I'll be leavin' you here," he said. "You're a ranch kid, you know what to do in the open. If you follow that little branch over there, it'll lead you right down the mountain, and eventually you'll either come to somethin' you know or to somebody's house. From there you can get home. Here's some jerky and dried fruit, and a few matches so you can make a fire. You'll have to go on foot, I'll need to take the horses."

Mike and Andy watched in silence as he mounted and led his two spare horses away. "Are we gonna do what he said, Andy?" Mike asked.

The older boy thought the question over. In the tree cover that cloaked much of the mountain slopes it would be very easy to get lost, and then there was the time factor—there wouldn't be more than a couple of hours left of decent daylight, and while Andy had been helping work the cattle up this way for the last several years, he hadn't been doing it on foot. "No," he said after a while, "we're gonna find us some shelter—maybe a blowdown we can turn into a lean-to, maybe a hollow tree. Then we're gonna rest and eat, and in the morning we're gonna come back here and follow his horse-tracks on down."

"Why?" Mike asked, a little uneasily; in his year-plus at Sherman Ranch he'd inevitably heard stories of what happened to people who got lost in the open with no horses. "Jess told me that when you're lost, there's two best things to do: stay put, or find a stream and follow it down—it'll always lead you to human folks sooner or later, he said, and meanwhile you'll have water. A man can live a long time without food, he said, but only a few days without water."

"Jess was right," Andy agreed. "But Chess had someplace to go, and I've got a notion we need to get there. I don't know why, or what good we can do if we make it, but remember something else Jess always says? Trust your instincts." He dug into his pocket for his jackknife. "We'll make blazes so we can find our way back to this spot. Come on, Mike. Stick close."

**SR**

**The Stone Creek line cabin and the Laramie Road:**

It was just about six o'clock when a third outlaw joined the quintet at the line camp—a tall, thin man the others called Chess, who wore butternut breeches but carried a long blue Cavalry overcoat, trimmed with beaver fur, behind the cantle of his saddle, and led two horses behind his own. Jess guessed (correctly, as it later turned out) that these were the mounts belonging to the two gang members Mort had in jail.

Around full dark, he and Johnny were taken outside and made to get aboard their own horses, and the group rode down the creek to the bridge, then on to the Shermans' fence line and across the open road, up the tree-stippled slope on the other side. From there they began following the high ground toward town. Hank led the way, Chess brought up the rear, and Luke rode directly behind the two Harpers, a rifle across his saddlebows. A fourth outlaw, addressed as Boone, rode a little off to one side, also armed with a rifle.

Jess had been prepared to dig in his heels and be stubborn if Hank Hardison showed any inclination to do Johnny harm before they left the cabin. _Not if you want me to get you into the jail,_ he'd planned to say. But in the end it hadn't been necessary; perhaps Hardison had figured on some such thing—after all, he'd admitted that he'd guessed the two were kin, though he still wasn't positive of the exact degree—or perhaps he wanted the two gang members whose rescue was next on the program to have a piece of the younger Harper too. That had been a relief; until Chess joined them the Texan hadn't been quite sure that the boys weren't still in danger, and if truth were told, he wasn't sure of that even yet—but at least, assuming they were still alive, Hardison couldn't send some kind of signal to have them killed; all his gang was either with him or in a cell in Laramie, if Mort had been right about their numbers. Andy was a brave, smart kid, and Jess himself had helped teach him how to survive in the open; if he was free, he'd be able to take care of Mike and get the two of them home, somehow.

Jess knew better than to ask a lot of questions, but he figured that Slim had been right: one man—this newcomer—had been left with Mike and Andy, and having not heard any instructions to the contrary, had now joined his fellows, but not before he'd released the boys somewhere within reach of human habitation. Or so Jess grimly hoped, at least. It was now two against four, which wasn't bad odds—he'd had worse—but he and Johnny were both disarmed, and their hands were tied in front of them to make it easier for each to keep his balance in the saddle.

He twisted his neck and glanced around at his brother, who looked much too calm—nothing of that sputtering-fuse readiness of before. It was as if he'd settled on a plan, and having done that he could keep control of himself till the right moment. _He's got somethin' in mind_, Jess knew, out of his blood-link with the younger man. _Maybe somethin' he worked out with Nardo long ago, maybe somethin' he come up with just for this, but he ain't give up no more'n me. It ain't what Harpers do—not __our__ kind of Harpers._

Johnny met his eyes briefly, but his face revealed nothing. It was the look that many men would have called his natural one, wary, close to distrustful—though not of Jess, or of his faith in his new-found family. It was, if he'd known it, not too unlike the one Jess himself had often worn in his first months at Sherman Ranch.

Johnny knew that he had come perilously close to becoming part of a tawdry, predatory life, and indeed all that had kept him from it was his awareness that the Harper name, back in Cherokee County, wasn't highly regarded. When he'd concluded that Jess had betrayed their bargain, he had resolved privately that he would have better ethics—better honor, as he thought of it—than that. Jess had done the kind of thing those other Harpers might have done, and for that very reason Johnny felt bound not to follow his example.

He had mended his fences with his brother, and was surprised—or maybe not so much, really—at how good it made him feel. He had reunited with Francie, which delighted him, and had found that he rather liked his new brother-in-law Ben McKittrick, who was almost old enough to feel like a sort of father figure. He had also discovered, like Jess before him, that the kindness and acceptance of the Sherman Ranch family was warming to his battered young soul. He understood why Jess cared for them so much, why he was so grimly resolved to do anything necessary to ensure the safety of the two boys. He felt more than a little sad—even ashamed—that he hadn't been able to find something as good, these eight years; that he'd deliberately turned his face away from decent society, broken the law. Above all, he understood that it was because of him that Jess and his adopted family were faced with their current situation. He still didn't regret killing Ren Haythorn; the man had deserved it. But as he had brought this peril on these good folks, so it was up to him to do whatever lay within his power to make amends.

He had let Jess disarm him of his visible gun, the Dance .44 he'd won in a poker game some years back. But he hadn't let Jess know that he had… other resources. There was an Arkansas toothpick—a slim, straight-edged, ivory-handled knife, eight inches long overall, five-inch double-edged blade of Damascus steel, balanced for throwing but equally useful for thrusting and slashing in hand-to-hand combat—tucked into his boot, hidden by the flared bell of his _calzoneras; _all he'd have to do was reach down, flip the edge up, and slip his hand in alongside his leg to get at it. There was an underarm holster, with the front open all the way to the bottom and a flat steel spring sewn inside the leather to hold the contents in place till needed, concealed under his vest, held by a strap across the back and loops over each arm, so it would be hard to spot; and in it was the ten-shot 1859 Model New Haven Navy that he'd bought back in Amarillo all those years ago. Its seven-and-a-half-inch octagonal barrel was just the right length that the tip didn't show under the hem of the garment.

And sewn to the inside of his waistband, where he could reach it with his hands tied in front as they now were, was a folded razor, with which he could free himself any time he took the notion.

But not yet. Not till Jess was ready to make his own move.

He'd already betrayed his brother once, and his brother's new family. He wasn't going to do that again.

With a cold patience that was almost un-Harperlike, he waited for his time.

**SR**

**Laramie:**

It was dark by the time Hardison's party rode slowly down Laramie's Front Street, lit only by the full moon riding a sky with a few thin scarves of cloud, and some street lights and lamps affixed to building walls, plus the occasional glow spilling out through a saloon window or open door, by which Jess guessed that it wasn't yet ten; that was about as early as the bars generally closed even on a slow night, which this was, being a Thursday. There was a light showing in Mort's office too, but it was dim and filtered: Corey had pulled the shades on the front windows so nobody could spot him and shoot in through the glass.

Jess knew that by now Matt and the others would have come down Cemetery Road and found their spots, but where they might be he didn't know. Ben had been right, he thought: springing their trap too close to the jail would be a bad move. They'd be either above it or below it, or maybe some one and some the other.

Hardison checked his tawny-maned brown and looked alertly around, eyes narrowed. "All right, Boone," he said quietly, "give Harper his gun. I'll be on the hinge side of the door, ready to push in as soon as it opens. Luke, hold the horses. Chess, stand by the corner of the building and cover us. Boone, you be ready to jump in wherever it looks like you'll be of best use." He waited while Boone freed Jess's hands and slipped his emptied Colt into its holster. "Let's do it."

Jess shot a quick look at Johnny as he slipped out of Trav's saddle. He still didn't know what Johnny was going to do, but he could feel in his gut that something was going to break, and he had a very strong notion that Johnny would be the one to start the ball rolling. He wondered if Matt or Slim had warned Mort of what to expect. Maybe. Maybe not. Slim was good at this kind of thing; he'd have figured that as long as Hardison and his followers thought they were winning, they'd be more likely to lose their edge, and that would only be good for the rescue party.

He waited while Hank and Chess got into position, then stepped up to the office door and knocked hard. "Mort? You awake in there? It's Jess."

There was an instant of shocked silence from inside, then the light went out. "Jess? What are you doing here at this time of night?" came Corey's voice through the wood.

"Heard tell you might be needin' a deputy," Jess replied. "Didn't want to come sooner for fear somebody'd be watchin' the place, but I scouted around some and it don't seem so."

Mort didn't respond for a long thirty seconds. _Is it gonna work?_ Jess wondered uneasily, shooting another glance at Johnny, who hadn't moved; he was still sitting the saddle of his big black Topper, only his vivid dark eyes alive in a face more pokerish than a cigar-store Indian's.

Then Jess heard the bar sliding out of its brackets on the other side of the door, and the click of the latch being freed. The door opened a crack, held by the chain, and through the opening Jess could make out the racing gleam of light on metal. He shifted just enough so that Mort would be able to see the gun in his holster. Apparently it was enough; the chain slid out of its slot and the door began to swing wider.

Hank Hardison moved, fast as a rattler striking. His weight hit Jess on the left side, propelling him against the surface of the door and throwing it open, which in turn sent the sheriff reeling back. Both of them landed on the office floor in a heap, and before Corey could figure out exactly what had just happened, Chess lunged in too and both outlaws had him overpowered, disarmed, and pulled to his feet.

"Sorry, Mort," Jess said quietly, climbing erect. "This wasn't no choice of mine."

"What happened?" Mort demanded, sounding not angry but concerned and puzzled.

"Ain't got no loads in my gun," Jess explained. "And they took Mike and Andy yesterday when they was up at the lake fishin'. Made us go along with breakin' out them two you got in the cells. We had to."

Mort sighed. "I guess you did."

"All right, Chess," said Hardison, "get Jack and Orion out here. I'll find their guns."

**SR**

Behind the low false front that crowned the façade of the jail, Francie Harper McKittrick lay on her belly, snug and warm in Jess's woolen pants and Andy's brightly-patterned blanket coat, Andy's cut-down Henry held close. It had been Slim's suggestion. _Ben was right—we can't give 'em a chance to fort up in the jail. With you on top, you can cover the door and make 'em keep their distance. The rest of us will do the infantry work—you're our sniper cover._

Down in the street, Johnny Harper gently eased his bound hands toward his middle, his eyes on Boone and Luke, who were watching the jail door.

And in an alley just a few doors below the jail, Leonardo O'Regan leaned his big side-hammer Spencer .56 against the side of the building, checked the loads in his twin Remingtons and slipped a sixth round into the empty chamber of each, and returned them to the holsters. _P__ronto__ahora__... pronto_[soon now… soon], he thought. _Be ready, Juanito._

**SR**

Jess watched silently while Hardison's two _compañeros_ emerged from the cell bloc and received their gunbelts and sixguns from their boss. He noticed that one of them was colored like Hank, though he had a somewhat duller look to his face, and guessed that this was one of the brothers Mort had mentioned.

Chess took Corey back into the cells, and Jess heard the sodden sound of metal against flesh, the sliding thump of a body hitting the floor and the metallic crash of a barred door shutting. _Leastways Hardison told that much truth, _he thought— _Mort ain't killed, just out of action a spell. _He waited to see what would come next.

"Now," said Hardison, "you march, Harper. Back in your saddle."

"Why?" Jess asked. He'd supposed they'd lock him in the other cell and make their getaway.

Hardison grinned. "Because," he said, "you and the Kid are about to have a date with a noose."

It caught Jess completely by surprise. _"That_ wasn't no part of our deal!" he objected. "I reckoned on you killin' him, but why me?"

The two newly-released gang members pounced on him, grabbed his arms and doubled them back hard behind him so he couldn't break, and pulled him out the door. Hardison followed. Out on the boardwalk he said, "Because the Kid cost me a cousin, and I'm going to serve him the same. Before he dies he's going to see you swing first."

Jess's eyes shuttled fast to Johnny. "Not 'Kid,' Hardison," came the younger man's voice, "and not a cousin neither. Name's John Jordan Harper, and I'm Jess's brother. _Jess—move!"_ he yelled, and hurled himself out of his saddle, across the back of the horse alongside him, into the dim alley, rolling as he hit the ground. A gun blazed out of the darkness.

Jess's two captors, caught unawares by Johnny's action, reflexively loosened their grip just enough for him to follow his brother's advice. He gave a single powerful surge of his shoulders, whirling sideways to shoot a fist into the belly of the man on his right while his foot stomped down on that of the other, and made one of his head-first vaults for the open office door, tucking and rolling as he went through, then uncoiling and bouncing to his feet to slam the door behind him and drop the bar. Without stopping, he lunged for the gun rack, figuring that Mort wouldn't have locked the chain as long as he was expecting trouble, and yanked a shotgun out of the braces, breaking it quickly to make sure it was loaded, then snapping the barrels up till the latch caught and reaching into the drawer underneath for more shells. He dumped them into his jacket pocket and raced for the back door.

Matt Sherman—who hadn't realized that Chess had already gotten his jailed partners' horses out of the stable—had stationed himself behind the building next to Dennison's livery, figuring he might be able to take out whoever came to get the animals. When he heard the sharp distinctive report of a light-caliber handgun from up by the jail, he knew something must have gone wrong. _"Slim! Ben!"_ he bellowed, charging toward the scene of the action. "Take 'em down!"

**SR**

When she heard Hank Hardison say "swing," Francie knew it was time for her to make her move. She scrambled up on her knees just in time to see Johnny go flying over the saddle of the horse next to his own and Jess vanish through the jail door. Resting her borrowed Henry on the parapet, she slammed a round into the chamber and began firing, paced shots, just enough to let the outlaws know that trying to rush that door wouldn't be too good an idea. She had sixteen bullets in the magazine, then she'd have to reload.

Johnny, with his New Haven Navy, had ten rounds but a lighter powder load—seventeen grains to each bullet, against thirty for a .44, which gave him a bit over half the latter's range, that being effectively twenty-five to fifty yards, though an expert could score at 300. In these close quarters, that hardly mattered. All that prevented an instant wholesale massacre, on both sides, was the uncertain light—the moon was still playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds—and the fact that there were half a dozen men and horses all milling around trying to decide what to do now that the plan had unexpectedly gone south.

An outlaw couldn't afford a flighty high-strung mount that might jump at a sudden gunshot or run away on some real or imagined fright. But even a steady horse could be forgiven for panicking at a regular fusillade of shots, some of them whizzing by under its belly or past its ears. The animals reared and pitched, yanking Luke off his feet and pulling the reins out of his hands, several breaking away to go racing off down the street. Slim, coming fast from his station alongside the dry-goods store, had to throw himself hard to the side and roll to avoid being run down by one of them. Ben, who'd taken a position on the bakery roof, had been nearer but had to get down first; he stopped long enough to give the younger man a hand up, then both headed for the fight.

Jess, as he'd expected, had found the back door of the office barred and locked, but that didn't take long to remedy. "Johnny!" he hollered as he started around the corner of the building and up the alley. "Johnny, it's Jess, don't fire!"

"Okay, big brother," came the reply between shots. "You're just in time—I'm about empty; gi'me some cover, will ya?"

"You bet!" Jess got his brother located—Johnny was sensibly down on his belly, some six feet in from the alley mouth—and took up a position another eight or ten back from that, where he could use his shotgun to good effect. He realized at about this same time that there was someone up on the jailhouse roof, but this person appeared to be firing at the outlaws, which meant an ally, so he didn't worry about it.

At this hour only the saloons were still open, though custom was light. Nobody had had any warning of what was about to go down, or any idea of what was going on when it did, so most of them either hugged the floors or headed for the back doors. A few windows splintered from wild shots, but no innocent bystanders came to grief.

Someone appeared at the alley mouth as Johnny was hastily getting extra bullets out of his vest pocket. Jess let go with one barrel of the shotgun, and at the same moment the roof gun barked, and the unknown jerked in two directions almost simultaneously and fell in a heap; this was later discovered to be Boone Shelby, and whether Francie's Henry slug or Jess's charge of twelve-gauge buck finished him no one was ever sure. Out on the street someone yelled in pain: "I'm hit—my arm, I can't use my arm!"

People shooting at one another are usually in a hurry, unless they happen to be both very good shots and very cold-blooded, and while the Hardisons were of necessity both these things, the surprise had disorganized them and destroyed most of their advantage. Chess Goodweather, who had been hit in the arm, was also struck in the back but managed to get a horse and swing up. Orion Trescott was hit three times, but he crawled to an alley, found that a horse had run into it and been stopped by a board fence at the end, and there in the shadows somehow got himself mounted, although no one out on the street was aware of this at first.

Jack Hardison was hit several times but tried to keep going and make a stand; he made it to an alley across the street and leaned against the wall, holding onto his gun and waiting for help. He was bigger than either Luke or Hank and had a lot of stamina, and he was no quitter either. He might not have been the greatest brain in the bunch, but he wasn't a coward.

Matt Sherman had reached the drugstore, where he holed up in the recessed entryway between the display windows. Luke and Hank caught sight of him and fired at him, but he ducked back and suffered only some cuts from flying glass and a bullet in the calf of his leg. Slim and Ben made it to the hotel porch, where there were chairs, and while these were hardly bulletproof they did serve to break up a man's outline in the shadows, which made for a certain degree of cover. When Chess and Orion made their break, they had to race right past the two men in order to reach the bottom of the street. Ben nailed Orion as his horse galloped by, and for Orion, already badly wounded, that was the end; he tumbled out of his saddle and died in the dust. But Chess hung low on the neck of his mount and somehow made it through the gauntlet of fire. What ultimately happened to him was never definitely known, though Andy was once heard to say that he hoped the man had gotten away safe, because he'd been decent to the two boys.

Luke and Hank managed to get out of the crossfire, then discovered that Jack wasn't with them. They might have tried to find some place to hole up, at least long enough to get horses and get away, but one thing that had to be said for the men of the Middle Border was that they stuck together. So they went back for their brother.

Jack was done for but still fighting, going on nothing but instinct and grit. Luke and Hank, homing in on the sound of his shots—every black-powder gun had its own distinctive "voice," and a man as accustomed to firearms as the Hardison brothers could always pick out those of the weapons he was most familiar with—found their way into the alley from the back and got into place on either side of him. Jack had a wound in his throat and couldn't talk, but Luke began telling him that the Hardisons could whip the whole town of Laramie and even the whole Wyoming Territory, and it gave Jack strength. That was Luke's way, and to the end he would know no other.

Luke was the only one of the three who had fought in the war: Hank had been too young, and their mother hadn't let Jack go, being quite well aware that he just wasn't smart enough to make a soldier. So this kind of firefight came almost naturally to the oldest Hardison, and he didn't fire wildly. Like Hank, he didn't think of running either, not with Jack so badly hurt. He wasn't sure how many he was fighting, but it didn't matter. He had to make his stand.

By this time the rescue party and the Harper brothers had located the survivors and begun to move in toward their position. Matt was limping and losing some blood but still on his feet; Johnny had a bullet-burn across his shoulder, but it wasn't his gun arm. Ben and Slim reached the alley-mouth first and Slim put his back against the façade of the building to the left of it and shouted, "You in there! Give it up! You can't escape, we'll have you penned from both sides in a minute!"

"Come and get us, then!" Luke hollered, and without waiting for them to do so he charged.

Matt had gotten to the other end of the alley, and he had the best view of what happened next. Luke made it out as far as the edge of the boardwalk, looking around for the man who'd called to him, and Slim stepped away from the wall and said again, "Give it up!" Luke didn't. He had a rifle and raised it, and Slim shot him in the shoulder. Luke went staggering back, almost dropping the rifle but managing at the last instant to retain hold of it. He sat down in the dust as if to think over what had happened, almost as if he couldn't believe he'd been hit. Hank started toward him, leaving Jack where he was, mumbling and bleeding, too far gone now to fire or to hit anything if he had.

Two or three of the horses had somewhat skittishly drifted a few doors down the street, obeying the instinct of gregariousness that urged them to get back with other animals they knew, and were clumped together in front of the general store, heads jerking at every shot, but not moving away because their reins were now dragging in the dirt and their training was to stay still in such a case. Hank saw them and hauled Luke up on his feet, and at that moment Ben stepped out past Slim and yelled, "Hold it!"

Hank threw himself sideways, pulling Luke with him. Ben, who could see that Luke was probably out of action, had meant to take Hank instead, since he didn't appear to be wounded, but owing to the younger man's quick, sudden movement he caught Luke in the chest instead, and at that range the bullet threw the oldest Hardison back with terrific impact. It tore him loose from Hank's grasp and Hank went scrambling. The sound of the shot brought Jack up too, somehow or other, and he began stumbling blindly toward it. Given the darkness, Ben couldn't tell if, or how, this newcomer was hit, or even who he was, but he did see the gun and had to make a split-second decision. He made the only one a man could who'd followed his profession for twenty-some years. He shot Jack in the throat, and Jack went down with his back broken. That was the end of him; there is a way a man falls that tells you he's badly hit, or dead, and Ben knew it when he saw it.

Hank saw it too, even in the terrible position he was in. He ran, zigzag, toward the horses. He was young and quick and he made it, though by now both Slim and Ben, seeing that he wasn't going to give up, were firing at him. He took one shot in the left shoulder and one in the right hip, but he got into the saddle—and then, instead of making a dash for safety, he turned the animal's head toward Luke and went racing to get him.

Ben and Slim had to leap out of the path of the charging horse, which kept them from firing either at the animal or its rider. Jess and Johnny, with shotgun and Navy revolver, were too far away for their weapons to do any good, and Francie was in the process of getting down off the jail roof, sliding down into the alley behind the building and making her way out to the street. Matt started toward Front Street, hoping for a clear shot, then stopped in sheer amazement as he saw Hank—whom he recognized, of course, from the day Mose had been wounded—and saw that Hank was, not sagging in the saddle from his wounds, but leaning down like an Indian brave trying to pick up a fallen comrade, something Matt had seen more than once in his long life. The sight held him where he stood, experienced though he was. It was, he thought, a senseless move. Luke was already as good as dead; there was no way he could get up behind Hank. Jack was dead. The rest of the men were down or fled. It was the end of the Hardison gang, and Hank, the brains of the outfit, should have known that. But there he was, twenty-three years old and doing the only thing his background allowed him to do: trying to save his brother. Bad as they might be, Jack and Luke were both fearless enough, but Hank was willing to give up more than either one of them.

And then someone appeared at Matt's side and he heard Leonardo O'Regan's distinctive accent. He spoke in Spanish, but Matt had traded in Santa Fe and, like Jess, had at least a listening comprehension of the language. _"Ladrón, malvado, asesino, __te atreves a__planificar__para colgar__mi amigo—ahora__, __enfrenta__lo que__has ganado__, __como su__primo__hizo! _[Thief, villain, murderer, you dare to plan to hang my friend—now, face what you have earned, as your cousin did!]"

Something in the tone reached Hank, whether he understood the words or not, and he sat up and reined in, both at the same moment, and then Leonardo's two holsters were tilted up on his belt and he was firing, right and left hand alternately, and Matt dived to the side and rolled, and the whole alley was filled with thunder. Hank was firing too—somehow he'd gotten his gun out and held it steady enough for the job. Leonardo was letting go with everything he had—as Jess had reflected a few days earlier, three times faster than a man with a trigger, and far more accurately than a fanner—and Matt could see Hank's body jerk as the bullets, some of them at least, hit him, but he hung on and got off two shots, three, before he tumbled out of the saddle. And suddenly it was silent again.

"Who's in there?" came Slim's voice from the mouth of the alley.

"I am, son," Matt called back. "I got a notion I'm the only one breathin'."

Jess came up at a run, still holding the shotgun, with Johnny close behind, his left arm hanging limp. "Is that Matt?" he asked his partner.

"Yeah—I don't know who was doing all the shooting, though," Slim admitted. He hesitated a moment at the edge of the boardwalk, and then Ben handed him a lamp taken down from its wall mount, scratched a match and lit it, and the four of them moved in, cautiously. The horse, its saddle empty, had run on out the other end. They found Hank first; Ben stopped and turned him over, seeing by his size that he wasn't Matt, and leaned over him while the others went on. Matt sat up, a little dazed, and Slim hurried to his side. That left Johnny and Jess, and they both recognized Leonardo at the same moment, by his clothes and the gleam of the light on his Tiffany gun butts.

"Nardo!" Johnny dropped to his knees beside his partner. The Mexican had fallen face-up, his head toward the far end of the alley; there was blood on his fancy embroidered shirt, too much blood, and more running out his nose and mouth. But he was alive still, and conscious, and he knew Johnny's voice.

"Juanito… _estás bien_ [are you well]?"

"I'm okay, _compañero_—it's just a scratch, don't worry none about me…" Johnny automatically returned his Navy to the hidden holster and leaned over to open Leonardo's shirt, but the other man's hand came up to prevent him.

"No," he said. _"E__sto no__es una cosa__para un amigo__para ver _[this is not a thing for a friend to see]. If you are alive… that is what matters."

"You're alive too, you blame fool, and too tough to let a few bullets stop you—"

Leonardo's chest rose and fell raggedly. "What does it say in your Bible, Juanito? _'__Para todo hay__una temporada _[to everything there is a season]'? We have had our season, you and I… it has been a good one, no? I said… I would kill him, that _puerco_, for the bullet that almost finished you… but you have found what you needed all along, what I could never give you—the thing your brother found long ago… your family… your home…"

"It'll be yours too," Johnny insisted. "You hang on, dang it—I ain't—"

The wounded man smiled weakly, his eyelids drooping. _"Debes_ [you must]…" His hand slid into Johnny's and their fingers interlocked, clinging almost frantically. For one moment longer the flame of life burned high in him, and he got out the words of a traditional Mexican wish for good, the one that covers just about everything there is: _"Salud, riqueza__, amor, y __tiempo para__disfrutar de ellos_ [health, wealth, love, and time to enjoy them]." Then he coughed, and the blood in his windpipe came up, and his chest shuddered once, twice, and was still.

Francie came running up in time to hear the exchange; she stopped at Ben's side, listening, and he slipped an arm around her shoulders and held her close against him as her brother watched his friend die. Jess went down on one knee behind Johnny and laid his hand on the younger man's unwounded shoulder. Slim had Matt on his feet, half supporting him. People were slowly, cautiously filtering out of the saloons, a few bold guests, awakened by the clamor, emerging from the hotel; some going to examine the bodies in the street, others converging on the alley, drawn by the glow of Ben's lamp.

"'_Greater __love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his __friends,'"_ Slim murmured.

"Come on, Johnny." Jess's voice was deep and warm and quiet. "I'll help you see to him."

**SR**

It wasn't till late morning that the Sherman Ranch party headed home. Matt's leg and glass-cuts and Johnny's arm had had to be tended to, and Mort Corey gotten out of the cell and put in bed till he revived on his own, and to everyone's astonishment Hank Hardison was still alive, though with half a dozen wounds. Doc Sweeney, who assumed his care while Doc Phillips saw to the others, figured he'd be dead by morning, but he wasn't. He'd been shot through both lungs, but he lived, and eventually was returned to Missouri to serve out his sentence there. He was pardoned after he'd done fifteen years of it, at the age of thirty-eight, and a year later married a woman who had been his sweetheart in boyhood and had meantime married and buried two husbands, having a daughter by the first. Prison, and his near brush with death, had changed and mellowed Hank; he never caused any trouble for the Harpers, and returned to enforcing the law. Like most former outlaws who did so, he proved to be a real "watchdog of honesty;" no charges of misconduct were ever laid at his door. Later the couple moved to California, where Hank died at sixty-six, in part from the effects of the old wounds.

Slim rented a buckboard from Dennison's livery, and Mr. Elbee, the undertaker, and his helper loaded Leonardo's coffin—it was one of the pre-made ones he always kept in stock—into the back while Matt settled himself on the seat, Johnny alongside him. Jess tied Johnny's Topper, Nardo's buckskin Chico, and Matt's big black, Bowie, on behind, and everyone else mounted up to ride as guard of honor around the wagon as it set out for Sherman Ranch.

Jess was trying to decide how best to find Andy and Mike, and had about decided that the most sensible program would be to go up to the lake, find the spot where they'd been taken, and try to trail them from there. But this proved not to be necessary: when the company pulled into the yard, the boys were already home. They had made their way down the mountain, following Chess's trail, which, of course, had led them to the Stone Creek line camp, and from there they had been able to walk to the bridge and over the divide to the headquarters. When they finally got there they were hungry and footsore, but not otherwise harmed.

The family buried Nardo the next day, on the hill behind the barn, next to Jess's old friend Mac. "They'll get on real well," Matt opined. "They can talk about what it's like bein' friends with a Harper."

"Mac always was a talker," Jess agreed. "He'll like havin' company."

Johnny was shaken and exhausted, but he held firm and didn't break down. Everyone was very gentle with him for the next few days while he worked his way through his grief. He and Nardo hadn't been together long, only four years—but Jess had been at Sherman Ranch no more, and he understood very well, as did the Shermans, just how strong a bond can be cemented in that length of time, especially between two men who have pursued a dangerous profession and faced death side by side.

Eventually Mort Corey rode out to visit them, find out how Matt was doing, and be formally introduced to Ben and Francie, whom he hadn't met. Johnny was off by himself somewhere, still mourning his friend, much as Jess might have done—seeking solace from the Big Open he knew so well.

"You do know who those fellers were, don't you?" Corey inquired. He didn't have to say which "fellers" he was referring to.

"Yeah," said Matt, "we know."

"Hank's not saying very much," the sheriff proceeded, "and nobody else seems to have heard or seen anything that would explain just what all the shooting was about. Anyone want to fill in the blanks?"

A look circulated between Matt and Slim and Jess. "Well, Mort," the elder rancher began, "it was like you said. Seems the Amarillo Kid was our stage robber, and either some kin of Jess's or they thought he was. They somehow got the notion that the reason the Kid had been doin' such a land-office business on our stages in these parts was that Jess was feedin' him information, which of course was a blame fool thing to think, but that was how they figured it. They knew you had two of the gang in jail, and they knew you and Jess work together frequent, so they figured to use him to get into it, which you know; Jess says he told you how they took Andy and Mike to force him to do it. Then they were planning to hang him before they left town—reckoned if they couldn't put their hands on the Kid, maybe a relative of his would do almost as well, and maybe too the Kid would hear of it and come after 'em, which would give 'em a chance to take him down."

"That's right, Sheriff," Francie put in. "I was on the jail roof and heard Hank say they meant for Jess to swing."

Mort considered this information. "I'm guessing the four of you figured on something like that, and got into town ahead of them and laid a trap, or at least tried to," he said. "But who was that Mexican Elbee sold you a coffin for? And wasn't there another man with you? Folks I talked to said they saw two black horses—one was your Bowie, Matt, not a speck of white on him, but the other had some on two of his feet."

Slim cleared his throat. He wasn't comfortable with lying, but his father, he knew, was more pragmatic—and, perhaps through association in his younger days with various well-known mountain men, a consummate tale-spinner. Nothing that Matt had said so far, except for the possibility of Johnny trying to avenge Jess, was anything but the literal truth; if it wasn't "the whole truth and nothing but," it was at least close enough to be coherent and plausible. Matt only smiled. "Ask us no questions, Mort, and we'll tell you no lies."

The two men regarded each other solemnly for a moment, and then Mort nodded briefly. "All right. If you ever decide to let me in on any other details, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Mort," Matt said quietly.

**SR**

A week after the gun battle, Overland agent Reece, arriving at the Laramie stage office to open up for the day, found a couple of gunny sacks packed against the front door. When he opened them, he was astonished to find two or three dozen stout buckskin sacks, containing some $7250 in gold dust, and forty-odd thousand in currency, mostly hundreds and under. It didn't take a genius to figure out that this was the money lost in the recent spate of stage holdups; some of it still had the paper bands marked with the Laramie Bank's name around it. How it had gotten there no one could say, although Mort Corey did find traces suggesting that two horses had paused behind the office during the night, and someone wearing high-heeled boots had made several heavily-laden trips to and fro between there and the door. The horse tracks led out onto the street, where, of course, they were impossible to follow further.

**SR**

"California," said Jess thoughtfully. He and Francie were strolling near the pasture fence, out of earshot of the house, in the gathering dusk.

"That's right. That's what we've decided on," his sister agreed. "We talked about what Slim told you, that Ben could make a new start here. But… well, even with the local takin's given back, this is still too close to Cheyenne and Colorado, where Johnny did the rest of his… business; and besides, Ben's never been to California, and there'd be a lot less chance, out there, of him runnin' into someone who'd known him from before. _You've_ had trouble with old enemies here, think what it might be like... you'd feel you had to jump in, Ben bein' kin..."

Jess nodded slowly. "I reckon so. You made up your mind what to do about all that money you got banked in Texas—what Johnny sent you?"

"We figured out that it came to just about what he earned, sellin' his gun, before he partnered up with Nardo and went into the wet-beef business," Francie explained. "What came after that's been just about spent, except some that Nardo sent home to _his_ family in Hermosillo. And after all I already spent some of Johnny's money, before the baby was born, and for her burial. We decided that money's money—you can't tell by lookin' at it how it was earned, and it's important to Johnny that he has a stake in what we're doin', that he feels equal to Ben—and so we're goin' to look at it as if it was all clean. It's not like anyone can prove for certain if any of it, or how much, didn't come honest, and Fargo's already made it up to the folks Johnny took it from, so..."

"Yeah," said Jess. "Reckon that makes sense. Slim wouldn't approve, but we don't gotta tell him about it. You can write your bank and ask 'em to send you a draft or somethin' to start a new account with, once you've decided on where to settle. And like as not there'll be rewards comin' for the Hardison gang—Slim talked to Mort about that; we figured best would be to let all the money come through, then send a draft for part of it on to you. By what we know, it'll come to around seventeen-five. Matt thinks we should split it three ways, part to Mort 'cause he was the one that got slugged, and it was him havin' them two in his jail that set the whole thing off. Slim figures we'll each be lookin' at close to six grand, which'll be enough to build and furnish you a good house and buy somethin' better'n five sections of land free and clear, more if it's four-bit grazin' land, besides whatever you and Ben got put aside. What about them horses, though?"

"We've got enough cash, with Ben's savings, to get by for a while," his sister replied. "He and Johnny can still go back, maybe in the fall when it gets a little cooler, and do some mustang-huntin' down by the Salt Fork of the Brazos, and then come back by way of Arizona, missin' the snow in the passes. Meanwhile I can be settin' up a home for us and hirin' men to put up fence and such…" She paused. "Unless you'd like to come too, Jess, and kind of foreman for me—for us?"

He didn't say anything. She pressed on. "Won't you come with us, Jess? Slim says you've thought of goin' to California, years ago…"

"That was years ago," he said quietly. "It ain't now. I ain't sayin' that I don't sorta wish I could. But you got Ben, Francie; you don't need me. You got Johnny—and he's got the two of you. Matt and Slim, they need me. Mary and Andy and Jonesy, Aunt Daisy and Mike, even Mort and the stage line, they need me. And I—I need them. I can't leave 'em, I can't leave this place. This is my home now, Francie, and they're my family, just as sure as if they was blood—maybe more, some ways."

"I understand," she said. "I guess, come down to it, I knew you'd say that, but I had to try." She gave him a watery smile. "You're so lucky to've found them… I hope you know how much…"

"Ain't a day goes by I don't wonder at it," he told her. "Maybe sometime, you get yourselves settled, I can come out and pay you a visit. But this here… this is where I belong now. You see that, don't you?"

"I see that," she whispered, and came into his arms. "God bless you all and keep you, little brother."

"And you take care of you and them men of yours, li'l sis," he said.

"If you'll take care of them."

"You bet on it."

From the porch, Slim and Daisy watched as the two Harpers clinched in a desperate embrace; he with an arm around her shoulders, his big warm hand wrapped around one of hers, she with the other clutching his wrist. He gave her a reassuring squeeze and said, "There, Aunt Daisy. It's okay. You won't be losing your best boy any time soon."

"Are you sure, Slim? How do you know?"

"Oh, I've gotten to where I can read Jess pretty accurately," he said. "You have to look past the words and the keepaway face. He's saying, _I want to go with you, but I can't leave them._ And, _It doesn't mean I love you less or them more. It means you're all equally important to me. But things have changed a lot since we were kids. We're not the same people we were back then. We've got different needs now, different priorities. Yours is Ben, which is as it should be. And Johnny, 'cause he's the youngest __one left of us__. Mine is __working __through everything that happened after we parted. You and Ben and Johnny, you can help each other do that. These folks here can help me—they've already been __doing__ it, __four years__ now._ Maybe he doesn't realize he's saying all that," he added, "but it's what he wants her to know, all the same."

She sighed. "I don't want to sound like a silly, selfish old woman. I do want him to be happy, and I know how much it's meant to him to have found Francie again, and Johnny too. I know he loves them, and I know there's a part of him that has always belonged to them, and always will. It's right that it should. But… I _am_ relieved."

"Sure you are," Slim agreed. "I think out of everybody in this house, he means the most to you and me. You because he needs you so much—me because we've been through so much, the two of us. And next after us," he added, "come Andy and Mike, because he's their hero. I should be jealous of that, but I'm not. I haven't been for a long time; not being jealous was one of the very first things he taught me. Because, you see, there's something else he needs—not just to know that he's accepted and trusted and has people who'll have his back and not betray him or cast him out, but to know there's somebody in the world who looks up to him and admires him and wants to be like him—the way Johnny did once. I sometimes think it was that, as much as anything else, that's kept him anchored here."

She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. "Perhaps we'd better go in. I don't think they've noticed we're here, and I'd rather they didn't."

"I'm with you," he said with a grin, and turned her toward the door.

**SR**

Ben boosted Francie up onto the longitudinally-sprung seat of the new hooded buckboard he had bought: about the same size and weight as the market wagon he'd traded in as part payment for it, but with more cargo space owing to its non-integral seat, and a larger capacity (1500 pounds against the market wagon's 1200). It was equipped with a water-butt lashed behind the seat, a couple of three-gallon buckets, a shovel and ax, a twenty-gallon water barrel tied into the right rear corner, a wooden box of spare wheel-nuts, axle-pins, trace chain, and such, and a cover of Osnaburg sheeting—the favorite fabric for that purpose, coated with a mixture of linseed oil and beeswax to repel water—on bentwood arches fitted into gudgeons along the sides of the bed. It had been priced at $200, but he'd bargained the seller down to $150, then given the market wagon for $70 of that. Drawn by the sorrel and the bay he'd purchased in Cheyenne, it would be equally useful in California. His Winchester was sheathed in a boot on the right side of the bed, close beside the driver's place, and the seat was covered with sheepskin for comfort. In the bed were his saddle, bedroll, and satchel, Francie's trunk, Johnny's bedroll and Leonardo's saddle, a rolled mattress which when untied would fill most of the bed and provide comfortable, varmint-proof sleeping quarters, and an assortment of trail supplies, cooking utensils, camp gear, and the like. Tied on behind the tailgate were the sorrel he had ridden into Laramie on the night of the battle—a gift from the Sherman household—and a golden _tobiano_ pinto with silver mane and tail for Francie, as well as Nardo's buckskin Chico. Johnny, mounted on Topper, watched quietly from a spot about five feet away.

Having seen his wife settled, Ben circled around to climb up beside her, and leaned down to shake hands with first Matt, then Slim and Jonesy, Andy and Mike, and Jess last of all. "We're obliged to you for all you've done," he said.

"No obligation involved," Matt replied. "You're Jess's kin, he's family, that makes you family."

"And we'll be expecting letters too," Mary added firmly.

"You'll get 'em," Francie promised.

"You've got the map I drew for you," Slim said to Ben. "You follow the Old Laramie Road till it links up with the stage road, so Johnny doesn't risk being noticed in Laramie, then follow that through Rock River to Medicine Bow—there are signs all the way, you can't get lost—and then pick up the Medicine Bow River. Follow it down to the North Platte, and the North Platte up to the Sweetwater junction; you'll have water and grass all the way, and there are ranches and relays if you don't want to camp out. At this time of year there are freighters' trains going along the Platte just about every day, from Fort Laramie to Fort Bridger and Salt Lake, stopping off at the Sweetwater mines; hook up with one of those and you'll be safe from the Sioux, and once you get over the Pass you leave them behind. From here to Bridger, by that route, is something like three hundred fifty or -sixty miles. You should do the first leg in two or three days—the stage road's about the best we have in these parts, and along the rivers the going's easy. A bull train can do an average twelve miles to the day, and a jerkline mule outfit fifteen or twenty, so depending on which one you meet, you'll make Bridger in twelve to eighteen day's travel time. After that, find yourself an emigrant train with a good guide—they all stop in at Bridger—to cross the Great Basin; you don't want to take chances on the Paiutes, or on not finding water. At Reno you can unload your wagon, take the wheels off it, put the horses in a stock car and everything else on a flat, and take the train over Donner Pass all the way to Sacramento, if you want to. That's the nexus for every road into the Mother Lode country or north-south the length of the Great Valley, but from what I've heard, you'd better plan on the first; between the big ranchers and the railroad, the valley's getting pretty well tied up."

"If you do decide on headin' south," Jess added, "we got a friend down that way, or I do. Stop in at Morro Coyo and ask which way to Lancer. When you get there, find Johnny Lancer and tell him Jess sent you. Him and his pa'll treat you right."

Slim chuckled. "Get him to show you his patent of knighthood. He's _Sir_ John Vicente, of the Order of the Golden Gate, dubbed by the Emperor Norton himself." He gave Jess a sly look. "If you can get him talking about how he earned it—"

"You hush!" Jess snapped, his cheeks flaming, and turned away to shake hands with his brother. "I'm right proud of you, Johnny," he said softly, "and I reckon Ma and Pa would be too. I just wanted you to know that."

"Means a lot to me that you'd think so," Johnny replied. "And that you'd forgive me for what I thought of you all them years."

"Like Slim said, that wasn't no fault of either of us. You watch your back, little brother, and Ben's, and ride clean."

"Do my best, big brother," Johnny promised. He looked toward the hill. "You'll take care of his grave? See he gets flowers, maybe?"

"Me and Aunt Daisy, we'll make sure of it," Jess told him. "Six months out of the year, my word to it. And a proper stone, too, soon as I can save up for one. Owe him that much for takin' care of you, till Francie and me could do it again."

"Jess…" Francie called.

He came around to her side and stretched up for a last hug. The rest of the household didn't notice how she bent close to whisper in his ear; they were too busy bidding farewell to Johnny.

Ben looked to Francie to make sure she was ready, then kicked off the brake and snapped the reins across the team's backs. "Get up there, boys!"

The horses bent their necks, leaned into their collars, and started into motion. Johnny and Topper fell in on the buckboard's left side, about halfway down its length; the three unridden horses jogged along in its wake. The Sherman Ranch household watched, arms lifted in farewell, as it made its jingling way toward the divide and the bridge beyond. Francie turned back to wave.

Not till it had vanished over the hump of the divide did Slim notice the slightly dazed look on Jess's face. "Hey, pard? You okay?"

Jess blinked and shook his head like a man coming out of a dream. "Yeah…"

Daisy wasn't fooled. "What is it, dear? What did Francie tell you?"

"Told me—" he hesitated, remembering he was in the presence of a lady— "told me she ain't plumb sure yet, but she thinks maybe, come seven months or so, Johnny and me are gonna be uncles again."

Matt looked at his wife and grinned broadly. "In that case," he said, "let's all go have something in honor of the new arrival, and to wish your folks well on their journey."

They all turned back toward the house, Slim with a congratulatory hand on Jess's shoulder, Mary and Daisy already discussing the possibility of layettes. "And one of those new baby buggies, for when they go into town?" Daisy suggested. "We could pay for it out of our egg money, and have it shipped—"

"No such of a thing, Daisy," Matt interrupted. "That'll be like them horses, a present from all of us."

Warm and happy in the midst of his family, with the comforting knowledge that he had more, Jess went with them into the kitchen for the promised toast.

-30-


End file.
